Mr. Friendly Says So

People who suffer from unfunnieness and their enablers

2010-12-31T10:53:00.005-05:00

Stevemo blogger for the local rag (there is so much fuggin’ wrong with a newspaper hiring gratis wannabe writers I don’t know where to begin) points me at another hipster comic blogger. I need a laugh (also need to steal an idea but that is another post) today so I take decisive action. I click the link. The blog title's prediction, I fear, is incorrect.

Why do I have to be so decisive? Why can’t I be passive and just assume the comics will suck? Why? Why am I a chump? Why am I so optimistic? Why are people so blind to their ineptitude? Why? Why? Why? Whyfugginwhy? Why do writers think they are so fuggin funny when it is excruciatingly clear to everybody, including family members, that they are not? Nor will they ever be. They are hopeless, hapless, helpless. I cry every time they put pencil to paper. Seriously. I am misspelling the worlds (see!) because I can’t blink back tears quickly enough.

I am inspired to write the following.

Lady,
The Marx Brothers are funny. You are not.
Dorothy Parker is witty. You are not.
Jonathan Winters is manic. You are depressive.
Andrea Martin is a genius. You are a dullard.
Jean Sheppard left us. You will not replace him.
Three Stooges are funny. You are not.
Modern Family is funny. You are not.
Nor are you cute, nor ridiculous (well, not that way).
I gave you five minutes, you ruined my day.
Hope you’re happy. Hope you go to your New Year's Eve party
And tell all your unfunny buddies how you brought
Yourself to tears.
Because it would break my fuggin' heart to find
That you aren’t getting any enjoyment out of your
Scribblings either.
Bob Hope is hilarious. You are not.
Phyllis Diller still rates. You never will.
I can’t believe how mad you make me.
I was funny. Now I’m like you.

Who? Who Says the Skinny Broad is Hotter?

2010-12-30T12:54:00.011-05:00

From the car, I’m watching the soccer mom jog down the main drag here in Anytown, Frozen Tundra USA. She is past me in a moment but I see she could stand to put on a couple of pounds. Wait a minute, wait a minute, don’t go on a man hating rampage yet. I’ve been watching women for over thirty five years now. I have experience. I know who needs to put on weight.

Ladies,
Whoever told you that this is the ideal is not on your side. HE probably doesn’t like women at all. Probably the same dude selling little boy clothes to rich hausfraus in the city. What I’m putting down is he thinks THIS is hot. He is wrong.

Hell and I like Ann Coulter. I think she is funny. I would invite her to dinner (and force her to eat) but we only have four chairs in our dining room set. She is, regrettably, a scarecrow with good hair.

As a public service, I would like to present a more suitable ideal.

Fat…No. Big and bulky…No. Muscular…Yes. If she runs, it is probably very fast.
Once again class, I drive the point home:

NO!

YES!

NONONONONONONO!

YESYESYESYESYESYESYES!

Oh and gentlemen, you probably already know this but the same goes for you.

NO!

YES!

Maybe you’re asking yourself this very minute, “Who made him the arbiter of physical beauty?” Well, we are all entitled to an opinion, are we not? Just that, I happen to be right in this case.

Day 3: Why I’m here.

2010-12-30T08:06:00.001-05:00

Before the sun comes up, the dumbbell must come up. In various ways. Fly, Curl, Kickback, Repeat. Do some other iteration, repeat. Five more variations and repeat.

I am working my shoulders, biceps, and triceps. This is why I’m here. I want Tony to give me my arms back. By the end of 50 minutes, I can’t lift them. I feel aches in areas I forgot I had. A good thing demonstrated by my veins, already brought to life on the bicep, the underside of my forearms, and the anterior shoulder.

Imagine myself this summer with arms. I will be the talk of the forty/fiftysomethings. Vanity is what I fought for today. That’s not a bad thing.
After the bodybuilding, I do the Ab Ripper X. I almost finish a couple of exercises. That’s better than my first try on day one. Progress, progress, progress.

I still hate life but I imagine it passing.

Day 2: Feet Off Floor

2010-12-29T13:26:00.000-05:00

Day Two brings Plyometrics. I am not first delivering a blow by blow of P90X, so I guess you knew that. I almost jumped, then I lunged, then I twist jumped, then I squat jumped. Then I did it again.

Lying I would be if I told you it was easy or I didn’t huff and puff. How did the Russkies and East Germans do this without a bucket? Clearly it is a unsolved mystery of the Cold War.

One of the fitness dudes has one leg. Outfugginstanding. Tony points out this fact to motivate us? I guess. It did. Even at my advanced age, no one legged dudes will out hop me.

When I’m done and sweaty and I can’t breathe anymore, I notice my knees don’t ache. Fancy that. I feel like I should go right back to bed but I’m only tired, not hurting.

For the record

2010-12-28T10:14:00.001-05:00

Christian Rock sucks. Gospel rocks. Bluegrass "religiony" is also awesome.

The reasons should be obvious.

Two Years Under the Bar: Day 1, hating life but not the first or last time

2010-12-28T10:13:00.000-05:00

You find yourself in the basement and you are afraid.
But you’re not scared of the furnace devils. Oh no, that would be un-fuggin-reasonable.
You see, you’re a rational mofo. You have a good reason for your fear. You are down here to work out. And the sad fact is you are old, inexperienced, and wondering what kind of a sick, motherfugger gets up at 5 in the morning to get all sweaty and shat.
A sigh of desperation and an excited breath later, the DVD player is on. It is time to see what kind of a twinkle-toed pansy you are. The sad fact is you are a big one.
Day One of P90X is a 50 some odd minute procedure (introduction) called “Chest and Back.” To those still unfamiliar with regimen, Tony Horton leads you and three fitness models through 12 exercises (done twice don’t you know) that consist mainly of push ups and pull ups. You struggle with the pushups but you get them done. Ugly but done. Pullups are a different matter. You find yourself jumping, putting your leg on a chair, a band, anything. You’re kipping and cheating like your suffering an epileptic seizure on the bar. Anything to get your double chin over that fuggin bar.
Of course, the repetitions hover around a million and infinity. By the end of the first pass through the regimen, you wish your chest and back would fall off already.
And that, dear reader, is what makes this man a big, fat pussy. You are a sweating, gasping for air, and thinking about retching. But something stops you. Youlook at your TV and see the chick fitness model is ready to go. All 110 pounds of her, perapred for more pain.
You say to yourself, “This will not do.” You swallow your vomit and reattach your testicles.
You get your big fat ass back in plank, ready for more pushing. You get your ass on the bar for more seizures.
And this is just day one.

Two Years Under the Bar: Prologue

2010-12-27T12:58:00.001-05:00

I am tired of:
Knee injuries,
Back pain,
Looking skinny, until I take my shirt off,
An inability to execute one pull up,
Exerting greatly, for no gain,
Of not changing despite the effort,
Feeling older,
Looking older,
Doing older.
Enter P90X.
This better fugging work.
I began a year ago.

A Christmas Blast from the Past

2010-12-16T21:08:00.002-05:00

A WWE (WWF or WWWF) favorite. Enjoy.

Where the Elite Meet to Check Out Her Seat

2010-12-08T13:31:00.003-05:00

Oh Barry and Nick, how I thought you were so cool this day. What happened?

A fan letter

2008-11-20T13:24:00.005-05:00

Dear Mr. Fulci,
Accept my apologies for missing your opus, Zombi 2, upon its theatrical release. In 1979, I was both car-free and yet too young to view the carnage (plus nekkid ladies) legally. Thirty years hence, I no longer have legitimate excuses (although two children under the age of seven) under my roof might qualify. I hope I don’t catch you too late to express my highest praise for you unparalleled work.

My favorite aspects of your film include:
1.) 3.5 seconds before a character in the movie gets the eponymous “shot in the head.”
2.) Your depiction of two of NYC finest investigating an abandoned boat in the harbor while steaming on their own tug which inexplicably flies a non-U.S. flag. Just for the hell of it, whose flag is it?
3.) The utter girth of our first full blown zombie. I, for one, grow weary of the usual anorexic type living dead. Your 500 lb. behemoth was a welcome change.
4.) Boat chick’s diving outfit or lack thereof. Why didn’t Jacqueline Bisset think of that?
5.) Zombie vs. Shark. Underwater! To a draw. Unbelievable. This scene alone puts you in the Orson Welles’ class of movie directing.
6.) Drunken Doctor’s wife shower scene. Ah Lucio, thank you for showing her goods before she gets the old “splinter to the eye” treatment.
7.) “Splinter to eye” treatment. Second only to my aforementioned “zombie vs. shark” fight scene in my top 10 favorite movie scenes.

8.) Drunken Doctor waking up…fully clothed…on the beach…on the zombie island. No where, and I mean this with affection, has so little logic been displayed on the big screen.
9.) Two African Americans in the movie set on a Caribbean Island only one of whom actually lives on the island. Well done.
10.)The NYC Medical Examiner taking time out of a busy zombie autopsy to give his student shit about a scalpel’s and the student’s sharpness . I must concur with the M.E. that if we don’t take care of the little things (instrument conditioning, homework); we won’t take care of the big things (avoidance of zombies).

In conclusion, I hope you are well and enjoying the fruits of your labors. I hope it’s not too late to laud you for your great work. I hope you don’t get anything caught in your eye.

Your newest fan,
Mr. Friendly

Taking One

2008-08-20T14:51:00.002-04:00

Since I was thirteen years old, every time we played McGowan Hardware, Terry would pitch. And every time he pitched, I got plunked. That works out to two times a season and three seasons, six bean balls. One pitch got me in the shoulder, one in the thigh, three to the back, and finally, the topper to my ass. It was bad enough that the guy was successfully throwing at me but, he threw the baseball as only adolescent Cro-Magnons could. “Hulk throw ball. Crush puny human head,” I thought I heard him rumble more than once from the mound. As luck would have it, he missed me once. The ball sailed about six inches over my head, hit the plank board backstop on the fly, leaving a three inch dent there. I knew this because, as our catcher, I inspected the wall between innings.
I found it hard to think that Terry felt some deep seated hostility towards me. In the three years we spent at Cohunk Intermediate Baseball League, we may have exchanged eight and one half words (grunts count fractionally). Standing at first rubbing my thigh, back or ass, I would ponder the mystery. I would stand there waiting for the coach’s sign, which seldom came, to steal second against the vaunted McGowan Hardware nine. Maybe I breached some baseball etiquette. Perhaps I forgot to shake his hand after they shellacked our team again. Could the hostility stem from butting the hot dog line? Was I too tall? Too short? Not worthy to be on the field? I had no idea. The only certainty was that I should never, ever dig into the batter’s box when facing Terry Bove.
Indeed I am no angel. More than occasionally I considered letting my bat “slip” in Terry’s general direction. Reasoning, or so I thought, that my flying aluminum Adirondack would be construed as a defensive measure against more talented and hostile adversaries. However, more fearful and judicious voices in my head restrained me.
A cinch for last place, our team, “Mabel’s Sundries,” entered my last year of organized baseball by meeting very low expectations. Two men in scoring position and no outs, there they stayed until the end of the inning. A pop out to shallow left field turned into a double as the fly ball would fall between the shortstop and outfielder who subsequently fought over who would throw the ball back into the infield. I too made remarkable mistakes, both at the plate and behind it. While my .222 average was mediocre in anyone’s book, my .432 strike out average opened many eyes to my true putridity. When Ricky Mason, the amazing limping first basemen for the opposing Berdar’s Bakery, tried to steal second in our first meeting of the season, I managed to bounce my throw before it reached the pitcher’s mound. I outdid myself the next week by hitting the batter’s club with an errant throw to third. These plays and others less ridiculous are recorded in my mind’s highlight reel. From time to time, I review them and vomit.
You might expect a more understanding and grounded adult manager would find some humor in our baseball escapades. There might be such a man. A man with beautiful wife and two happy kids. He enjoys his work and attends church every Sunday. He’s a Boy Scout headmaster that no one thinks anything but wonderful about him. Alas, Don Sanders was not him. Coach Sanders was former semipro standout who settled down, got a job, and had a family. He was in his mid-forties, yet maintained many of the abilities which made his glory days, well, glorious. Standing about 5 foot 10 inches, his shoulders almost managed to be as wide as he was tall. Popeye would envy this man’s forearms. They were massive; I could see him ripping the top off a can of spinach. His legs were just bigger versions of his arms. Don’s kid was on the team and lacking his father’s gifts, I imagined Dad coached Mabel’s with the hope that he could get Donny Jr. some playing time. Unfortunately, our pathetic play proved that there were bigger fish to fry.
By the third week of the season, Coach Sanders had seen enough. After another inevitable and yes, ignominious blowout, he held a meeting after the game. His face burned with shame and the clenched tendons in his neck told our team that now would not be an excellent time for levity. We gathered in the dugout with heads hung low in disgust. Standing at its entrance, Coach Sanders gripping the roof with his great ape arms and began his speech.
“We’re going to have practice on Memorial Day. Be there or hand in your uniform now. Our play is like crap and I don’t want to manage a team that doesn’t want to get better. We will have batting and infield practice, but mostly we are going to work on fundamentals. That means hitting the cutoff man, getting in front of the ball, making strong throws, and basically, changing our attitude towards this game. I can’t take it anymore boys. We are a laughingstock and I’ll be damned if that will continue. See you on Monday at 11 sharp.”
Sheldon Lisp, our starting right fielder, thought this was a good time to manage the manager’s schedule.
“My mom and her boyfriend wanted have a cookout Monday. Is it ok if I leave practice early?”
While twelve pairs of his teammates’ eyes peered at Sheldon with incredulity, Sanders, expecting some lame excuses, fired back calmly and evenly.
“Sure, Shelly. You can leave early. You can leave right now. But, please don’t bother coming back. Oh, and by the way, could you take some of the boozers, potheads, and girl chasers with you? I am sure your Mommy has a few extra wienies for your friends that don’t want to play better.”
And at that debate ended. The following Monday practice was full of griping young men. Resigned to my fate, I took my position behind the plate for batting practice. Before I could get into a squat, Sanders barked out: “No, uh-uh, we are not hitting yet. Coach Stram will conduct infield practice for the next hour. Get to your positions. Coach Stram, if anyone of our lovelies doesn’t get in front of a ball or doesn’t hit the cut off or doesn’t call for a fly ball, make him run a lap around the field. Another lap every time he does it. If he drops while running laps, leave him where he lies.”
Turning to me he barked “Catcher’s practice is in the bullpen. Bring your gear and I hope you wore your cup today.”
Thankfully, I had.
Watching Coach grab a bucket of balls, he strides over to the bullpen. It was then I remembered that Coach Gargantua used to pitch semipro. Putting two and two together, I cursed my fate and shambled along behind him.
“All right. We are going to practice digging balls out of the dirt. Get your mask on and get behind the plate,” he recited his request, expecting no complaint. Taking my punishment like a man, I gave him none.
The first pitch was a hard “12 to 6” curve about a foot wide of the plate. It bounced about five feet in front of home and to my right. Since I was leaning on my haunches, I offered a very feeble glove move to block the ball. Coach Sanders yelled “Don’t relax back there. Get on the balls of your feet and move your ass!”
The next pitch was much the same only to my glove hand. In response, I tried to “Ole” the pitch. Ole was trying to catch the ball by waving your glove towards the ball similarly to how a matador waves the cape at a bull and precisely the habit Sanders was trying to break. “One more wave at the ball and you will be running a very long time. Get in front of the pitch.”
Next came the fastball. Ninety miles an hour, right in front of me, and airborne for fifty feet. The ball hit a rock in the bullpen and bounced over my glove into the chest protector. I felt a direct hit to my solar plexus. I fell forward, gasping for air. The ball, miraculously, stayed in front of me.
My coach offered the following praise, “Nice job. That’s what I’m talking about. Here comes the next one.”
And so it went. After half an hour, I thought he had enough and we would move on to some skills training. That’s when Coach Sanders managed to squeeze a low hard one between my thighs, pass my cup, and into my prized family jewels. When the stars cleared, I heard him say, not very concernedly, “You all right?” Since the searing pain prevented any communication on my part for a minute, I assumed my position. I can’t be sure, but I thought I heard him say “Good man.”
After another half hour, we stopped. While we gathering the stray balls about the bullpen and I appraised my various bruises, he muttered to me. “Look, the other kids look up to you. You have to make an effort or this whole team is going down the shitter. You did well towards the end. Use your quickness to stop the passed balls. Anymore catching balls with one hand and we’re going to have to do this again. Understood?”
I was tired and a little embarrassed by the need for Coach’s special attention. In his own way, though, we both knew that this was his peace offering. If I agreed to play harder, he would stop breaking my back. With a little luck, he believed, we could make our team a little more than cannon fodder for the rest of the league. Beaten like a rented mule, I considered the alternatives and said “OK.”
Practice was only beginning. For our next exercise, Coach gathered the team, save Jimmy Beales and myself, at first base. Jimmy was sent to second and I was behind the plate. Before he went to the mound with his bucket of balls, he left me with some words of advice. “Look, you have to stop thinking about your throws. Just get up and throw the ball. Honestly, you can’t do any worse. You’re already starting to worry about your them. How you’re gonna be embarrassed in front of your friends. How your dad is going to hate you. How the girls wont think you’re cool. Knock it off. Just throw the ball to second.”
The session began unmiraculously. My first five throws were wide left from two to three feet. After the next throw sailed over Jimmy’s head, I bounced five more ten feet in front of the bag and into right center field. Red with rage and shame behind the plate, I tried to settle myself down. And there, in the middle of all my anger and embarrassment, I had an epiphany. A little nugget of truth covered in batter box slop:
“Who fucking cares?”
And I paused for a moment to mull over my deep thought. What in God’s name do I care what my moronic teammates think? In a couple of weeks, I’ll never see them again. Hidden from their derision through no proximity, what I should be worrying about is how best to intimidate these guys and how to end this particular drill. Quickly, I strategized. Given my current state of mind, some action utilizing my hostility would probably work best. In that moment, I stopped worrying about what these losers thought and I began to visualize throws bouncing off their heads…one at a time.
On the next pitch, my throw reached second on the fly, on time, but just a little high. I darkly grimaced behind the plate. The next throw was on the money. Runner is out. And so was the next. And the next. Feeling the rhythm of Coach’s pitches and the runner’s break for second, I could get out of my stance and unload each throw quicker than its predecessor. Even errant throws, by the end of the drill, were getting the runners because: one, they weren’t that errant; two, I was giving Jimmy plenty of time to adjust to a less than perfect throw. Eventually the rhythm became mindless, receive pitch, out of stance while getting ball from glove, cock my arm and unload. Again and again.
“Whatever the hell you’re doing back there, keep doing it,” Coach Sanders said. Artful encouragement from an artful man.
“Not a problem, Coach,” I tried to say without my anger.
“Get in the outfield for batting practice,” Coach bellowed from the mound.
From left field, I watched my teammates hit. Occasionally, a ball would make its way out to me but I was mostly occupied with thoughts of how best to stop these drills from ever occurring again. I stood out there and let my rage roll over me: rage at myself for getting in this predicament, rage at my teammates for their crummy play, but mostly rage at my opponents, rage for those bastards who think they can roll right over my team. They think I’m their patsies. They think we have no pride. Well, the other teams are screwed. Let them ridicule Mabel’s. Let them say anything they want about our play. But God help them if they try to steal. And have mercy on their souls if they lose their helmet in the process.
Our next game was Berdar’s again, with Donny Jr. on the mound no less. I am sitting behind the plate as the game starts grimly determined to collect payment from those attempting to steal on Donny’s weak stretch delivery. When the first two batters made out, I thought I would have to wait until the next inning to unleash my fury. But Ricky Mason, with his uncanny leaden legs, walked on four pitches. I go out to the mound to talk to Donny.
With my mask still on, I say “Donny, don’t pitch from the stretch. And fire the first one right down the middle.”
“No way. My old man will kill me,” Donny whispers, ever the courageous one.
“Look, I have a plan. Just hurry up and throw me a fastball, then a pitch out.”
“You think old lead ass on first is going?” Donny caught on.
“He will if we ask him to.” I left the mound.
Donny waited for me to get behind the plate before he set for the pitch. With the batter in place, he threw with a full windup before anyone realized what he was doing. Strike one. The first complaints came from our dugout.
“Donny, what the hell are you doing? You have a man on first. Pitch from the stretch or you’ll be in right field faster than you can say ‘Dad, I hate baseball.’” Coach Sanders yelled and, in the outfield, Shelly’s heart skipped a beat.
I threw the ball back to Donny and the batter got in the box. Immediately, Donny stepped on the rubber and prepared to pitch full wind up again. I smiled from behind my mask and watched ambulatory impaired Ricky take off on Donny’s first movement. Without looking, Donny fired three feet wide of the plate where I waited. Ricky hadn’t reached the midway by the time I threw to second. Before he was ten feet from the bag, Jimmy was waiting for him with the ball. The inning was over.
Donny and I entered the dugout together. From the third base coaching box, Sanders promised us endless days filled with hundreds of laps if we didn’t start listening to him. I kept my head down and smiled.
The game was tight for a couple of innings, but Mabel’s would not be denied. It seemed that my rage infected the rest of the team. It was as if, collectively we surmised our opponents’ ability and desire as slightly more pathetic as our own. And, as you know, once you reach that understanding, there is nothing to do but the lay the hammer down on your competition. Our box score became littered with decent plays and some timely hitting. For the first time that I could remember I had no passed balls, three assists, and two hits. The final score: Mabel’s 6, Berdar’s 3.
After the game, there was no post mortem, no skull session following ignominious defeat. Sanders just told us we did well and we should continue to focus on those things that led to our victory. That was easy. In two short days we faced McGowan again…with Terry Bove on the mound.
Our lineup remained the same except that Jimmy and Donny would switch positions. Jimmy Beales was one of the best players in the league and gave our team a marginal winning chance with his pitching, despite the talent letdown of Donny at shortstop. I am not sure if the Berdar’s win made my teammates a tad delusional or if the stark reality of our plight made gallows comedians of us all, but the mood in the dugout was jovial. The other Mabel’s players optimistically thought that perhaps, just perhaps, lightning would strike twice and we could win. Maybe this was the start of a new, brighter, winning era for the league punching bags.
In the top of the first, I got to bat with no one on and two out. Stepping into the batter’s box, I already new what was in store for me. I stepped lightly. The first pitch zipped right over the outside corner. Strike one. I was unfazed. Terry couldn’t resist. His second pitch hit me square in the back.
I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t look at the mound.
And I sure as hell didn’t rub my back. I took my base and planned.
In some other world, maybe fifteen year old baseball players act like they know less than their coaches. A more effective and less fun world, it must be. I stood on first and looked at Coach Sanders. With Jimmy at the plate, he didn’t waste anytime with signs. I would not be stealing. Or so he thought. I thought I would give Jimmy two pitches.
At 2 and 0, I took off. McGowan’s catcher had no chance. Terry had bounced a curve in the dirt and I stole second, standing up. The 3-0 pitch was a fastball that Jimmy fouled directly behind him. From second, I watched Terry set for the stretch pitch, pretending to peer in at the catcher’s signs. I can’t be sure but, I think I saw sweat on Bove’s brow.
With the count 3 and 1 with two out, conventional wisdom dictates that runners on second not try to be heroes this early in the game. I had different scores to settle. Not even bothering to look at Sanders, I took off for third. The pitch hit the inside corner and I was safe by a mile. While I was dusting myself off, Coach said, “Do that again and you’re sitting.”
“Won’t happen again,” I smiled. “I think I have their attention though.”
“Don’t screw up.”
“C’mon Jimmy. Knock me in, man.”
Nowadays, you can pay big money in consultant fees in order to learn how to relax. In that moment, I think Jimmy and I reached a mutual understanding that when you have nothing to lose, the job at hand becomes much easier. Given prevailing opinion, we were expected to fail. How nice it was to see our opponents, the guys who couldn’t be bothered with our pesky presence, shouldn’t be concerned with our crappy team, become a little worried. It was in that moment that I learned that even the most accomplished amongst us might wilt under a little bit of pressure.
Terry fired a fastball down the middle of the plate and Jimmy deposited it over the left field fence.
Of course our story does not end there. There wasn’t much more scoring; Terry settled down and McGowan managed to squeek a run. At the end of five and a half innings, we led 2 to 1.
Jimmy pitched a pretty good game but our opponents were beginning to catch up to his fast ball. Their first two batters lined out sharply to left and center. With two out, they sent up my nemesis. Terry Bove relaxed at the plate. He didn’t look at me or the people in the stands. He just watched Jimmy, imagining the next pitch. I figured we would start him off atypically with a curve in the dirt. Jimmy missed but Terry didn’t. That curve landed on the center field fence and Terry stopped running at second.
Next to the plate was McGowan’s first baseman, Jack Watson. On the very first pitch, Jack screamed a shot past Donny into short left field. And the next few seconds I remember as if it happened today.
Three...
On the sound of the bat, Terry took off. He rumbled halfway to third as the ball zipped by Donny. From my vantage point, I could see he intended to round third. By the time our left fielder threw, Terry was rounding the bag.
I begin to see the short term future. If Donny cleanly retrieves the ball and realizes Terry is on his way to home, he quite possibly could throw home. I throw my mask aside and wait for the throw to get into the infield. It’s only moments…
Two…
Terry rounds third without looking, he is headlong for the plate. He doesn’t acknowledge anything but the current mission, score. And if that means Hulk must crush some puny human (that would be me, folks), so be it. Donny fields the ball cleanly and I don’t even wait for him to assess the situation. At the top of my lungs I cry out “Don, get it home.” I make sure I am blocking the plate.
Don turns and realizes the magnitude of the moment. Without hesitation he responds like a seasoned pro. He fires a seed at my chest…
One…
Terry is ten feet from me. He is running hard and heedlessly. He is ready to bowl me over. In his eyes, I am not another guy, someone you might share a joke with or a beer.. I am an obstacle to be overcome, or in this case, flattened. He lowers his shoulder and I finally, finally, finally, after three long years, dig in on Terry Bove. Because today kiddies,
I already have the ball.
Zero
Jammed in my glove and protected with my right hand, I tag at Terry as he lowers the boom. His shoulder meets my jaw while my hands, arms, and torso push him off the base path. We land in a crumpled heap in front of, but not touching, home plate.
Standing up first, my first, my only concern, is the umpire. What’s the call, man? He’s looking at me and waiting. I realize he doesn’t see the ball and I know I’m home free. Holding it now with my thumb and forefinger, I show the blue suit that I never, ever, intended to drop that ball.
“You’re out!”
I wish I could say the crowd went wild. Perhaps they did. They should have. It must have been a hell of a show. Nonetheless, I was only interested in slapping hands with my fellow Mabel’s morons. We did it. We showed those opposing jackasses that we can’t be trifled with. It’s Miller Time Everybody!
They talk about men who share foxholes and K rations form brotherly bonds. I never served our country and the only thing I know of that approximates that feeling may be that night. We were shamed and ridiculed and finally, redeemed together. I will remember each of my teammates, my brothers in athletic shame, for the rest of my life. Even Shelly Lisp.
The celebration on the field eventually ran out of gas. As was the custom, we crossed the field for our usual after game ritual: the handshake. Walking over, I felt Terry owed me some answers. I mean, it was three years of hell, what was his reasoning. When I got to Terry, I had to ask:
“Terry, good game. Why do hit me with a pitch every time we play?”
“I do?”

On Tuesday Afternoon

2008-07-14T15:17:00.002-04:00

It’s Tuesday afternoon, around two, and the heat from the window units and the winter sun blasting through the blindless windows, beat me into submission. I sit at my desk and count the forty-first drop of sweat running down my brow. My shirt is ruined. My previous efforts at manipulating the window heaters were futile. I am too tired to even try now. Running a sleeve over my forehead, the back of my hand measures my brain’s temperature. I am burning up. Her phone rings in the next cubicle and my thoughts are fever dreams.

Whose muffled voice is on the other end? No, wait a minute, I think she’s speaking. What is the big secret? Drowsy, I focus on my spreadsheet. Ten seconds later, my head reels from a number jumble. Heat calls me to sleep and my eyelids flutter shut. I am going down, just for a minute, I’m sure.

Did she just say my name?!

Now I’m awake and listening. Indiscernible words frustrate me. Bending my head forward, towards her cubicle wall, my thoughts twirl in a whirlwind of secret agents and paranoia.

“The answer to your question is yes.”

What was that? What did she just say? Who the hell talks like that?

There was a time when she just started, I tried to be nice. One Friday, some of us were headed out for a beer after work. Asking her if she would like to join, her one word answer was “No.” Not “No, thank you.” Not “I’m sorry but I am meeting my boyfriend for dinner.” Back then I pegged her as simply odd. Did she think I was putting a move on her? Does she want to keep her work and personal worlds separate? Does my breath stink? Finally, I chalked it up to her social retardation.

Similarly, I asked her a question a few minutes ago. She was whispering on the phone then too. She held up one finger in my direction so, I waited at my desk, unsuccessfully maintaining conciousness. It’s getting too late to get back to me dear. I think about going without her but I figure that would be rude. I wait for her to poll her constituency telephonically. What does he want? Be leery of him. He only wants you for your body, money…Anybody’s guess.

The functional design dances on my desk, trying to grab my eye. I consider opening it and giving it a once over. It’s too damn hot and I can’t be bothered working, so damn tiresome. Better left for a day when I am not so irritable.

Receiver lands in its cradle quietly as if she doesn’t want to betray her conversation. That rouses me. May we get on with it now honey? I wait a second then three hundred more.

My head lowers to my chest. In a moment, there will be no denying sleep. That is when her chair moves. Quiet footsteps herald her approach.

“Hey, what’s up?” So she hadn’t heard my question.

“The heat’s putting me to sleep. Would you like to get a Coke?”

“Never drink the stuff. Enjoy though.”

Denied company again, this sad, friendless office drone enjoys his cold caffeine alone.

First Rule of M80 Club: There is no M80 Club

2008-07-05T12:26:00.001-04:00

Watching TV with my son yesterday, I turn on the 24 hour news station. It's a normal holiday. Light on the real news, the crews travel to Troy to get the lowdown on any Fourth of July scofflaws. I quote the local constabulary:

Troy Cop: Yeah, it's gonna be a long night. We'll be chasing kids of all ages 'til midnight and then some. Yeah, it'll be rough but you gotta remember we're acting in the public's safety whether they know it or not. You don't got to be a rocket scientist or nothing. All you gotta do is take a couple of probability courses down at the University at Albany and you'll know all you need to know: Light up enough firecrackers and you're bound to blow your FUGGIN arm off!

And there you have it from Mr. Safety himself. All you need to know.

I trust none of my readers blew a fuggin limb off yesterday. Have a nice rest of the weekend.

Reply To All

2008-07-03T09:26:00.001-04:00

To: MrFriendly@MrFriendlyInc.com, MrFriendlyClient@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientSupervisor@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientManager@Client.com,
MrFriendlyClientDirector@Client.com

From: LowlyITTrash@Client.com

Subj: Your most recent screw up

Dear Mr. Friendly Sir,
Your latest database design has many flaws. I have doubts with respect to and regarding implementation of your schema change in database CLIENT1. PLEASE CHANGE AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE!!!

Hoping to correct your flawed thinking,
Lowly IT Trash

Ummmm, ok. Today, class we discuss the most egregious problem with the email above. Let’s begin with a multiple choice test:

Is the most egregious problem?
a.) Pidgin English
b.) Failure to describe problem.
c.) The assumption that your humble correspondent is responsible for unspecified problem.
d.) All of the above

Take your time, I’ll wait.

If you said, “e.) The Mofo just emailed my entire supervisory team,” you would be correct. This mode of correspondence is rife with problems. I will try to list them here:
1.) It alerts my client that I may not be, Horrors!, perfect.
2.) It shows these same people that you are not an English wordsmith. Fortuitous enough, that is not my problem.
3.) It opens the door for the old “REPLY TO ALL” rebuttal, which I am quite skilled.

To: : LowlyITTrash@Client.com

CC: MrFriendlyClient@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientSupervisor@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientManager@Client.com,
MrFriendlyClientDirector@Client.com

From MrFriendly@MrFriendlyInc.com

Re: Your most recent screw up
LITT,
Not quite sure which problem you indicate. Please elucidate.
Yours in Christ,
MRF

Note class, my effective use of the open ended follow up. The more rope I give the mope, the better he might hang himself. The reply to this email is not significant. Suffice it to say that we go back and forth like this for a couple of days only to find out that my learned colleague failed to check his facts.

I point this out for one reason only. When composing your screed detailing your officemates’ deficiencies, you may not want to share that with management. My reasoning is, of course, bulletproof.

Suppose you are wrong. Do I really need to detail how your managers will now sympathize with your adversary? Or how they will reevaluate their opinion on your interpersonal and technical skills? Do I? I’m asking the questions here? ANSWER ME!

This works in everyday life too. Suppose you receive the following email:

To: Joan@yahoo.com, Bridget@gmail.com, Tony@somecompany.com, AlphabetSoup@earthlink.net, mrfriendlyalb@yahoo.com, dralan@healthco.org,
Tanya@someschooldistrict.com, mykidsaremylife@nys.org, ihatetheworld@ymail.com,
Ireallyjusthateyou@ymail.com, Mom@hometownemailservice.com, Mary@gmail.com

From: SomePainInTheArse@gmail.com

Subj: New Email Address

To all,
Please note my new email address. Take a moment to update your address books. You may also reach me at
HOME: 888-xxx-xxxx
OFFICE: 888-xxx-xxxx
CELL: 888-xxx-xxxx

Or if you feel like writing,
OFFICE EMAIL: SomePainInTheArse@myoffice.com

Please respond to this email so I can rest easy tonight knowing that all my friends know I changed my email address.

Needfully yours,
Some Pain In The Arse

All right nothing odd here except the strange request for a response. That’s probably the source of another post. Let’s get to the reply I got this morning.

To: SomePainInTheArse@gmail.com

CC: Joan@yahoo.com, Tony@somecompany.com, AlphabetSoup@earthlink.net, mrfriendlyalb@yahoo.com, dralan@healthco.org,
Tanya@someschooldistrict.com, mykidsaremylife@nys.org, ihatetheworld@ymail.com,
Ireallyjusthateyou@ymail.com, Mom@hometownemailservice.com, Mary@gmail.com

From: Bridget@gmail.com

Re: New Email Address

Dear Pain In The Ass,
Thanks for the note. How do you like gmail? I simply love it! Please write back and let me know.
I am always thinking of you.
Love,
Bridget.

Stop. Right. There.

Now we all make mistakes. Since 5:45 this morning, I have 32. But, but, but…no big mistakes. No snipping the blue wire when I meant to cut the green wire, no calling the wife by the wrong name, and certainly no mash notes to former or current lovers posted to 467 of my best friends. With that in mind, I feel empowered to share the following bits of wisdom.

A.) 1.) a.) iv.) Always, always…ALWAYS check who will receive your letter of love.
B.) 234.) z.) mcmvxxxii.) Pain In The Ass may wish to reconsider his/her relationship with Bridget. I mean, come on, would you share a bed or a joke with Bridget.

That is all. No need to reply.

Me Dear Sainted Mother

2008-06-30T13:15:00.001-04:00

Another story refused from some godforsaken flash fiction site. What the h*ll do they know?
--MRF

“Oooohhh, I guess I’ll go to da store meself,” moaned Mrs. O’Leary. “Too bad dough, cause me corns are killing me weary feet. Oooooh, how I wish my children loved me more than they do. Oooohh, ohhh, oooo. Me poor feet.”

Tom O’Leary rolled his eyes. So practiced he was at this he thought he could spin his orbs in their sockets. Too impatient to try today, he answered his mother. “Mom, what do you need from the store? I’ll go get it.”

“Ooooohhhh, don’t bodder yourself Tommy. I’ll eat da dog food here. Not that Fagin is going to need it anymore since you put ‘im down. What is it dat you said he had?”

“Rectal cancer Mom. Jesus, I’ve told you that a million times! You can remember ass cancer, can’t you?” He was here five minutes and losing his grip. He needed to get out of this house. Now. “Do you have a grocery list Mom?”

Mrs. O’Leary nodded towards the refrigerator. “Ooohhh, don’t go taking the Lord’s name in vain in me house Tommy. He may strike you down and take da house and me wit’ you. And tank you so much for going to the store Tommy. If I was to wait on your ten brothers and sisters, the police would be finding an old skeleton stuck to the recliner come this spring. Oh, and remember the Lactaid. Regular milk gives me da runs.”

Tom, retrieved the list and, with his back facing his mother, rolled his eyes one more time. It felt like his corneas would touch his optic nerve. He said nothing.

Trudging through the snow, Tom got nearly everything his Mom wanted from Coccas Corner Store. It was snowing like a bastard, maybe two inches an hour. Lugging four stacked and packed bags through hellish weather made Tom’s walk home ponderously plodding. That was all well and good, less time spent with the old bat. Since he was doing chores for her, his venial resentment wouldn’t need mention at confession this week. He walked home thanking God for the opportunity to offer his suffering up and dreams of sunny climes.

From a block away, Tommy could see his mother, bad feet and all, shoveling the walk in front of the house. Under his breath, he raced through an act of contrition until his rage subsided. He wished his eyes would stop throbbing.

“I was just clearing a path for you, Tommy. God knows I don’t want you to slip and fall,” she fretted. “How would you work if you were laid up for who knows how long? Ever since that, forgive me Mary Mother of Jesus, that bitch left, you have no one at home to look after you.”

She put down her shovel and followed him into the house. Tom’s eyes felt as if someone lashed them with barbed wire. Mrs. O’Leary’s coat wasn’t off when she said “Oooh, you didn’t forget the tea now, did you?”

The one thing Coccas didn’t have. Tom closed his eyes and counted to ten. “We can have coffee Mom,” he offered, hoping that caffeine might relieve his pain.
“Oh oh oh, I don’t have any of that either,” she moaned.

“I’ll ask the Marinellis if we can borrow some.”

“Those garlic eaters won’t give you nuttin’. Better to go wit’ out. I won’t drink it if you get it.”

“I think you might Mom. I’ll make it the way you like it. You’ll feel better.”

Returning from the neighbors, Tom hurriedly made sure his mother was comfortable, brewed the coffee, and downed two extra-strength ibuprofen. After serving her, he waited for her inevitable nod off.

Mr. Marinelli found the martyred Mrs. O’Leary’s stockinged legs sticking up from a snow bank in her back yard two weeks later. The police immediately suspected Tommy and began their search. Tommy, clever boy, figured the authorities would never find him in the Grand Caymans. And even if they did, a local priest guaranteed that God absolves guilt. All Tom had to do was ask. He did that and Tommy knew he was forgiven because his eyes never bothered him again

This is not a Poker Blog

2008-06-30T13:13:00.000-04:00

If you are pot committed before you look at your cards, should you even bother taking a peek?
--MRF

I have no idea where the BigMan lives. For the purposes of this recap, that is a good thing. TheHost doesn’t know either and that’s a bad thing, he’s driving. Good thing MarkyMark navigates, although my faith in him is waning. He seems a little sketchy on the details.

“Yeah, this turn, take a left…I think.”

And so it goes. The return of the Colonie Three. Totally clueless and ready to tilt.

The BigMan has a lovely home, lovely wife, lovely kids. Unfortunately, my story isn’t about them. I could cobble seven hundred and fifty words together about domestic bliss but it wouldn’t ring true. I mean, for the moment, this here space is a poker blog.

Shall we get to it?

Deciding whether or not to call Mr. Vegas’ push on your big blind while your humble correspondent is the short stack doesn’t even rate as a bibliographical reference to the index of a footnote in the big book of human history. Unfortunately for you, dear reader, that is what this post is about. After putting up my blind, about two thirds of my stack, I mistakenly looked at my cards. Looking was incorrect because it took Vegas’ all of about two heartbeats to bet the rest of my stack. Immediately I saw the idiocy of my action but I went into the tank anyways, trying to think my way through. When Vegas got called, I stopped thinking.

My cards are irrelevant. It doesn’t matter. I could be holding 7-2 offsuit and it would pay (in the sense that statistics and probability make sense) to play. I could play the board, I could play the hammer, it didn’t matter. I am getting over 5 to 1 for the rest of my chips. The clarity of pot odds chased out my trepidation. The apprehension from knowing what I held in my hand and the implicit probability (near 0) of a win, simply disappeared. Sometimes though, it makes sense to chip up irrespective of your cards. Ask the FlyingDane, he knows all things about sucking out and imputed, imperfect, improbable pot odds. I go all in, baby. What do I hold? The most fearsome cards in hold ‘em, the lauded hammer, 7-2 offsuit.

I am out in a flash. But I did the right thing. The problem with my game was that I got caught in the bind in the first place. That is today’s lesson kids: Don’t let the blinds get you or rather, don’t get bent because the structure of the tournament caused your downfall. That is the way cookie crumbles.

Big fun at the table anyways. The twenty man tourney split into two tables. My table consisted of the following ten people: theHost, WallyBall, me, Foley, and 5 people I never saw in my life. Host, Wally, and I are seated at one end; the end where the yakking never stops. To my tablemates from game one, if you want us to shut up, deal us hole cards that might stand up to a suited 9-6. Otherwise, your auditory bombardment continues unabated. I must confess that I was the worst perpetrator. Sorry, it’s hard to see 4-2, 8-3, A-2, K-5, 10-7,…and not get disgusted with poker and people. Now hobbling me with stoicism will not stand.

Someone has to speak truth to power.

Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, Vegas bounced me from Game 1. That’s when the BigMan flayed my dignity by making me the banker for Game 2.

I’ll try to get to that story shortly. It has a very, very happy ending.

I Miss John Belushi

2008-06-17T13:54:00.003-04:00

Back in the day, thirty years ago, I could be found on most Friday evenings during the school year behind the bowling alley. There the gang would hang out and drink, imbibe in drugs of dubious legality, and if you were lucky, hook up with the fairer sex.

Ah school days…

Just got to thinking about the scruffy dude with the twelve string acoustic guitar. I forget what his name was, just remembered he hung around the city, singing crappy covers. After a free beer or two, he would start playing his own stuff. Complete with harmonica, he’d ripoff Dylan or Springsteen, hoarse voice, mumbled words, and all.

It was my introduction to the faux-sensitive douchebag. Unkempt hair, shoes without socks, three-day old beard, denim jacket and torn jeans, he was a fashion pioneer or poseur. Not quite sure because I was just a teenager and only recently coming into my own fashion-wise.

I remember the Dude, as he shall be named here, for two things: his aforementioned appearance and the chicks. God, did they love the Dude. As long as he kept playing. Each heartrending ballad from the open roads of the Capital District or Asbury Park made the gals think “Oh my God, he knows, he knows…” Didn’t matter a lick that without the guitar, the girls would sniff “more disgusting Cohoes riff-raff,” he was gold as long as he could play the notes.

On the occasion that he would stop playing and get another beer, I might chat him up at the keg. Having siblings in the mental health business served some purpose as I couldn’t exactly diagnose him but I could determine that he was a bit off.

“Another beer dude?” I inquire.
“Don’t mind if I do. Troubadoring is thirsty work.” He accepts. Naturally.
“Dude, when did you pick up the guitar?”
“Man, it seems like yesterday but it was many, oh so many, years ago. I was doing a stint at CDPC*.” The dude was honest to a fault. And yes, he spoke like that.
“What were you doing there?” I am not doing my job if I’m not following up.
“Oh my man, I had problems. Problems with my Mom, problems with my Dad, problems with the service, and finally problems in the county lockup.”
“And did CDPC help?”
“They gave me the guitar and a new set of problems, with the ladies.”

I see…

Down in the office courtyard, there is another tortured artist belting out his psychotic upchuck, fingering his twelve string. Ruminating on lost love, broken hearts, and failed relationships, he sings to fourteen people, six of whom may be developmentally disabled. He wears a baseball cap, has a ponytail, sports some beard, determines that his stage tee shirt have at least three holes.

I want to rip that guitar out of his hands and smash it to a million splinters.

I guess that makes me another angry white man.

*Capital District Psychiatric Center

I'm good for two posts a year. Here' s number three

2008-04-17T08:38:00.001-04:00

I carry a man bag.

I don’t think that makes me sexually suspect, only emasculate. I take some small solace by telling myself I need something to carry my Jethro Bodine size lunch. Some days I feel better but not many. It is with envy I look at those company men that arrive at work with nothing more than a brown bag and a copy of the Post tucked under their arm.

However, I am not the worst case of office male feminization.

I just got off the elevator. The luggage per person ratio ticked at 3 to 1. Average size of attaché/man bag/suitcase with rollers: 1 cubic yard.

My question is: What the hell is everyone bringing to work? I have a few ideas:

1.) Homework: Man, if this is the case, the average office monkey is working way, way, way too hard, and by extension, not very smart.
2.) Lunch: Laugh if you want, but the denizens of my office are rated by the National Traffic Safety Board as “moving fire hazards.”
3.) Reading Material: It makes sense only if you attend our insufferably long and meaningless meetings.
4.) Status: Some days I think these jokers want to obstruct normal office foot traffic with their “carry ons” because they want the typical passer by to notice how important and essential they are to the operation. As evidence, I cite this preternaturally pretensious preening from a poseur: “You know, Samsonite is the new Rolex.” These dudes have nothing in their bags; they suffer from low self esteem and a need to be loved. I usually give them a hug before they get off the elevator.

Now that I have given some vent to my spleen, I was wondering if anyone wants to purchase my 10 year old Kenneth Cole. It is a little ragged but it needs a good home.

I’ll even clean the cookie crumbs out for you.

Caption Contest

2008-03-03T14:52:00.002-05:00

My Favorites:

1.) Yes, I will accept the VP slot

2.) Shout Out to all my Peeps! What do you mean I fugged up my gang digits?!!!

3.) Bill and I got it on this many times.

4.) Constipated for years, Presidential Hopeful Hillary Rodham Clinton asks to be excused from Texas campaign stop.

Laugh it up people. She might just be the best of the current crop.

Please feel free to shoot me your caption in the comments.

Getting Our Groove On!

2008-02-29T14:27:00.003-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night…

Wait a fuggin minute! Let’s try that again.

It was a dark and freezing morning…

Still sucks. How’s this grab you?

Dear Mr. Friendly,

The world needs you back.

Signed,
Your two readers

Well, shat on a hockey stick, who am I to deny my two readers?

In the immortal words of Debbie Fields, “Let’s get fuggin’ started!”

I’m walking into work the other day. It’s late February and the sun is getting a little higher in the sky, so of course the Eyewitness Weather (that’s me witnessing the weather folks) says it’s three below zero. And that’s in the shade, without the wind. I pass by Charlie, my parking garage hobo. Mister Charlie is waiting for me. He wants to shout out some good news:
“Hey man, gimme a dollar.”

“What the fug for Charlie? You already owe me fiddy cent!”

Charlie is unfazed. “Whafo’ you be speakin’ to me like that fo’? Imma jus’ tryin to get by.”

I am not a man to be upbraided by bums: “Charlie, for cripessakes, all you do is hang out at the garage and put the arm on solid, hard working, get up at the crack of dawn jerks like me. Why don’t you park your smelly arse out in front of City Hall for a change?”

“City Hall. Dayuuuuum man. I can’t hang out there. Those folks are crazy.”

I mutter “they’re not alone,” then ask “Whatcha talkin’ about Willis, I mean, Charlie?”

“They fine me outside City Hall, Mayor Jerry go an’ ship my sorry arse down to the city mission. I can’t get my groove on at the mission. They don’t serve no raspberry schnapps down at the mission.”

“And this means what to me, Charlie?”

“Youse got to help a poor fool out. Contribute to the ‘Help a Bum Get Drunk’ Fund.”

New approach. I .like Charlie’s ingenuity. “Here’s your buck Charlie. Hope your day stays as well as it started. Now get the fug outta my face.”

Who am I to deny a man his groove? I can't do that to Charlie, to my faithless and bored and moved on audience, nor, dear reader, to myself. So yeah, let's get grooving Garage Panhandler Charlie style. You shake your booty and I'll shake my moneymaker too. Maybe we can have a little fun laughing at all the other arseholes God put on Earth. I hope you'll join me. Especially you ladies. Oh yeah, you lovely ladies.

By the way, Raspberry Schnapps does qualify you for a forearm shiver.

What? You were expecting a home run right out of the box?

And then...

2008-02-28T15:21:00.001-05:00

depression set in.

This spells comedy for you.

Stay fuggin't tuned.

Fugger.

Everybody Sing!

2007-07-05T14:29:00.001-04:00

Hat tips to Melissa Manchester and The Smoking Gun

And a one, and a two, and a one, two, three...

Baby cried the day
the circus came to town
'cause she didn't want
parades just passin' by her

So she painted on a smile and took up with some clown

While she danced without a net upon the wire

I know a lot about 'er 'cause, you see
Baby is an awful lot like me

Don't cry out loud
Just keep it inside,
learn how to hide your feelings

Fly high and proud
And if you should fall,
remember you almost had it all

Baby saw that when they pulled that big top down
They left behind her dreams among the litter

The different kind of love she thought she'd found
There was nothin' left but sawdust and some glitter
But baby can't be broken 'cause you see
She had the finest teacher-that was me-I told 'er

Don't cry out loud

Just keep it inside

and learn how to

hide your feelings

Fly high and proud

And if you should fall,
remember you almost had it all

Big Finale !!!!!

Don't cry out loud
Just keep it inside and learn how to hide your feelings

Fly high and proud and if you should fall,
remember you almost had it all

And yes, these last two mugshots are of the same lady on two separate occasions four days apart.

I think I need a tissue.

The Two Cohoes

2007-02-16T23:00:00.000-05:00

There are apparently two Cohoes. The folksy down-home type that I guess Mayor John McDonald would like me to remember fondly.

Then there is this.

GUESS which Cohoes I remember?

T'aint hard. I don't live there anymore.

By the by, it's nice to be back.

Roundup

2006-12-26T13:32:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I am a bad Catholic. Maybe one of my Krazy Katholic readers can clue me in on the origin of the Solemn Mass' proclamation on Christmas:

In the five thousand one hundred and ninety-ninth year of the creation of the world from the time when God in the beginning created the heavens and the earth;

the two thousand nine hundred and fifty-seventh year after the flood;

the two thousand and fifteenth year from the birth of Abraham;

the one thousand five hundred and tenth year from Moses and the going forth of the people of Israel from Egypt;

the one thousand and thirty-second year from David's being anointed king;

in the sixty-fifth week according to the prophecy of Daniel;

in the one hundred and ninety-fourth Olympiad;

the seven hundred and fifty-second year from the foundation of the city of Rome;

the forty second year of the reign of Octavian Augustus;

the whole world being at peace,

in the sixth age of the world,

Jesus Christ the eternal God and Son of the eternal Father, desiring to sanctify the world by his most merciful coming, being conceived by the Holy Spirit, and nine months having passed since his conception, was born in Bethlehem of Judea of the Virgin Mary, being made flesh.

Even if I don't get an answer, it was still pretty cool. Proclamations are cool! Well, as long as you got something to say. I will not sully the post with "not so cool" proclamations.

Funny thing is I don't remember ever hearing this before. Then in one night, I get it recited, chanted, written. I am feeling good about my proud Church today.

**************************************
My church was packed. It is not a megachurch by any means. It is a small, 200+ year old church in Albany. Check out the website. They crammed in over 1200 people there for the 4:00 vigil on Sunday. Who cares if the congregation was supplemented by the C & E's? At least they participated in a pretty good service.

**************************************
Like Ralphie, my kids got nearly everything they wanted for Christmas. All gripes may be forwarded to the complaint department. That would be the full set of grandparents. With full wallets, of course. All more than happy to, uhm, take care of bidness.

**************************************
I can only con Mrs. F. into having a country ham once a year or so. Christmas was my day. Ooh-la-la Mama Friendly made one the night before. Delectable. Yours truly fired his up on the big day. Can you have too much of a good thing? I don't know. Ask Porky Pig if there is a downside to too much ham.

**************************************
I gotta slip it in because it is wrong. The link refers to a clinical description more popularly known "Partial Birth Abortion." If Catholic employers need to fund contraception and what not, Planned Parenthood and its supporters should be required to view the procedure, in all its glory, every day.

**************************************
Going to be making some changes here. Check out the Albany links. We have some additions.

Upstream is THE Mohawk Valley blog. Dan Weaver shames most others with his writing. Mr. F. says check it out.

Off the Top of My Head is Chris Rooney's blog. The one remaining Niskayuna reader is commanded to read it.

The Judge Report is Amsterdamer(Amsterdamian) Robert Going's blog. I read December and I liked. Seems like a good man. Let him know if you agree.

**************************************
Seriously need to get around to adding some religiousy type stuff. I'll get there...

My problem with some of the Katlick type blogs is the "Top That" type of faith. I really don't care if you know all the holy days of obligation or if you know the difference between the Nicene and Apostolic Creed or how much you just looooooove the "Old Mass." Those issues pale in import to faith, hope, and love. And the God, the Word, and the Spirit that make them all possible.

Don't forget Mary too. Without her and her exercise of free will, we would all be up a creek without a paddle.

***************************************
Hope you had a Merry Christmas.

I'm dreaming of a Brown Christmas!

2006-12-20T14:05:00.000-05:00

And such little squekers as these you will be led by.

Over twenty years ago and for more years than I would like to say I worked for United Parcel Service. During that time, I worked my way up from package handling turd to supervisor of package handling turds.

Imagine my self esteem.

Used to be during that time, I would dread Christmas. From a time of celebrating Christ's birth and spending time with loved ones, it became PEAK SEASON. When I started, peak began the Monday following Thanksgiving and lasted until the day before Christmas Eve. By the time I left, peak extended from Columbus Day to December 24th. I could best characterize it as a dream, a nightmare, of an unrelenting backlog of catalogs, LL Bean bags, Grandma's cookies, electronic crap, and heavy shat that in reality only lasted 15 hours a day. I remember distinctly waking from a morning fever dream of a mountain of packages that got bigger and bigger...

Among the numerous atrocities performed by myself and my managerial overlords, one event remains prominent. Settle back, and I will tell you a little story.

Back in the day, in addition to peak season's steady roll of parcels, there was always our manager's issue of the day. Usually, production held prominence, but occassionally, we lowly supervisors were tormented with demands for timeliness (get the trucks out on time), missorts (no packages in a truck that don't belong there), or leaving our area neat and tidy for the next group of jagasses to operate. In a reasonable world, economic analysis would show my manager/dictator that you might be able to optimize one or two of these objectives, but not all.

Never all.

Did. not. fugging. matter.
Not tonight.
With Christmas fast approaching, my manager's managers had expressed with great emphasis and many expletives to be sure, that our shift was not to leave one fugging package for the next shift.

Not one.

In an operation that moves 120,000 - 150,000 parcels in three to four hours, trust me, in a world of competing demands, this one is an impossibility. Our operation was designed to accomodate 20 - 25,000 happy packages per hour optimally. We were moving at least twice that at this time of year. The law of ten pounds of shat in a five pound bag clearly states:
Some shat will overflow.

But overlords being overlords, laws will be overlord-looked.

By the end of the shift, the guy leading us through our Christmas Coma gathered roughly 50 packages together. Then he gathered his we little supervisory crew.
"What the fug are these packages doing here?!"
My fellow supes and I looked at each other, looked down. We knew what they were doing there. They were missed. The trucks had to roll. These orphans never made their ride.

How wrong we were.

"You fuggin' arseholes are going to split these fuggin' packages up, put them in fuggin' vehicles, gas fuggin' up and fuggin' deliver them!"
Right.
"You will fuggin' do this or you will not get your fuggin' bonus check!"

Check and mate.

Our bonus checks amounted to at least half a month's pay. For those of us pulling doubles throughout the year, it was considerably more. We depended on those checks. Many of us worked all year for those checks. Bonus my hairy arse, these scumbags took that money out of my hide. That is my check.

I was wrong.

My manager could hold that check in his JC Penney shirt forever. I could try to go to his boss, but the response would probably be something along the lines of:
Boss's boss: Did you guys leave packages for the next shift?
Me: Yes.
Boss's boss: TS fugger.

So I load up a white panel truck (we rented some vehicles during the peak season), make sure none of the teamsters see me drive off (did I mention that this was a grievable action), and make my way to Hartford, Ct. Hope I have enough gas.

Decembers in the great Northeast can be rough. Typically, the early weeks of December bring the first weather assaults on the thermometer. That night the temperature approached zero, with a wind.

There was no one on the Thruway, Mass Pike, or I-81. I get to the Hartford Hub in a little over 2 hours. I pull into an inbound feeder door, make my way to the unload, and find a Hartford supervisor.

"Hey, another arsehole for the Brown Frown," I say.
"What, fugface!"
Typical response.
"I'm from Albany. My cogsuggin manager is holding my bonus check until I unload these here packages." I say.
"What an arsehole!", comes the response.

Good to know that there is some commonality with brothers in arms.

My counterpart will take care of the packages. I just leave them on the platform. I am about 10 miles from Hartford when I first think that I should have gassed up at the Hub.
"Shat!"

Things are getting dicey by the time I pass the New York/Massachusetts border...
low on gas,
still about 35 miles from the Albany Hub,
midnight on a winter weeknight,
weather is abominable,
Art Bell is on the radio.

I do what I swore, when I left, I would not do. I buy $5 of Thruway gas. Back in '89, that was about 4 gallons. Just enough to get me home. There is no way I am giving these chuckleheads free gas.

You get to thinking on the empty road. Well, I suppose you get to thinking about how nice getting home would be. I got to thinking about how much longer I would have to work for some miserable, punitive somnabit that would force my gang and me into delivering 5-10 packages on a 100 (or more, one way) mile trip. I reentered academia about half a year earlier and it would be another year before I got my degree. I was screwed for now. But when the day came, man it would be so sweet to kick the UPS dust off my workboots. And then burn the workboots.

I pull into the Albany Hub on fumes. That is when the teamsters saw me. They were waiting. They saw some of my fellow supes come back and knew what the deal was. They were just making sure they got all the names for the grievance. I told them I was just following my beloved manager's crazy demand and to spell Friendly with an "ie." I proceed to track down my manager.

Bumping into an old boss of mine, the one who ran the second shift, I ask him if he knows where Stoolmaker is (that isn't the manager's name, but it's close). Old boss lowers the boom. Stoolmaker left. Then he asks me what's up. I knew he knew but I felt I needed to unload and, what the hell, he was asking for it.

I launch into an expletive rich tirade that lasts about 15 minutes. During that time, I question the parentage of my coggsuggin' superiors, my own stupidity, and my generally miserable future.

You know what my old boss said. It had all the economy and wisdom of Ben Franklin:
"What the fug do you care, you'll not always be here."

Exactly.

During my time at the Brown Frown, I saw more than one person carried out, never to be seen by friend or family again. I have heard of the poor souls that would rather take the gas pipe than another day in his veil of tears. I saw people younger than forty have their futures obliterated by an innappropriate act or utterance which led to their firing. People I knew, who had futures beyond work, make it to retirement and have it end after six months. I saw young guys throw away a perfectly good education in order to get some teamster pothead to move just, a, little, bit, quicker. In short, God showed me in manifest ways that my future lied elsewhere.

Old boss was right. Let that miserable bahstahd have his day and pound of flesh. I hoped he was satisfied and would back off the rest of peak season. To myself, I wished him luck in his career. He would need it. In a year or two, he was one of the arseholes whose UPS career met a dismal end in the aftermath of some cocaine imbroglio.

Me. Well, after my bachelor's I pressed for graduate work so I stayed at the widowmaker a few more years. But I remember after I was done with my master's like it was yesterday. I gave my notice and after over ten years of service without a sick day, I called in on my last day. Fug them and their fuggin' cake. After a few weeks, I had not received my final pay (with four weeks of vacation time). So I called the district office and ratted out every manager, with one exception (old boss). My check came a week later and I felt square for a long time.

Nowadays, it's easy. I am way ahead but still laugh my arse off every Christmas season as I drive by the Albany Hub.

Merry Christmas to the poor schlubs of UPS.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

2006-12-18T09:16:00.000-05:00

I spent many a Christmas as a supervisor for a largely known package delivery firm. I hope that I can trade in my time there for time served come purgatory time. We'll see.
In commemoration, I give you "Do You Hear What I Hear?" UPS style.

Merry Christmas. This is all in fun. It's ok to not get it.

Said night side supe to his sorter staff
"Do you see what I see?
Way out in the lot, sorter staff
Do you see what I see?
A trailer, a trailer, we're missing one alnight
It will keep us here through the night
It will keep us here through the night."

Said the jaded sorter to the steroid boy,
"Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing through the PA, steroid boy,
Do you hear what I hear?
A page, a page high above the noise
With some news that will bring us no joy,
With some news that will bring us no joy."

Said the steroid boy to his lowly supe,
"Do you know what I know?
In your carhart jacket torn, lowly supe,
Do you know what I know?
A feeder, a feeder lingers in the cold --
We must unload it 'til we are old.
We must unload it 'til we are old."

Said the unload supe to his people everywhere,
"Listen to what I say!
Pray for an end to shifts everyday,
Listen to what I say!
A feeder, a feeder missing in the night
It will bring us misery and blight,
It will bring us misery and blight."

Are we fuggin retarded or what?

2006-12-15T10:08:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I know its been a long time, but with Christmas and all, things are slowing down at the salt mine and that means, more bloggin' time.

Yeah, baby! Let's get to it.

The only non-culturally befuddled habib around here steps up today:
NCBHabib: Mr. Friendly, when you calculate someone's age, does the number increment on or after the birthdate?

Restraining oneself from slapping someone silly for asking such a stupid question can really build character.

Me: The day the birthday falls ON! You friggin mo-mo! I imagine in your country, you actually turn five three weeks and a day following your fifth birthday.

He continues.
NCBHabib: Then why would someone (identity redacted because it would cost me my job) who was born on this day, five years ago, have an age of four?

...crickets...

Me: How the fug do I know? Let's look at the code.

So we look at the code, but the problem is there are two versions that supposedly do the same thing, get a list of people and show some characteristics (race, language, AGE!, etc.). MY version calculates the age of the person and is correct.

Always. well, so far.

Then there is the code Habibalala used. The nitwit who wrote it just took the age from the database. i.e. WHAT?!

I laugh.

You're not laughing. Ok, I will explain. There are two different kinds of data. Static data, like for instance a person's birth date. You know, data that will not change relatively often. Then there is Derived data, that is data that should be figured out each and every time you access it because that is a heck of alot easier than updating it every fuggin' year, month, week, day, second.

The only problem with this little model is when some yo-yo confuses the two types.

Guess what my little habibalalas did?

Yes, you are correct, sir!

I fuggin laugh at NCBHabib. He must take the issue up with his fellow subcontinenter who wrote the crap code.

I wish him luck and kick his arse out of my cubicle.

Turkey Q and A (courtesy of Butterball)

2006-11-22T07:54:00.000-05:00

How much turkey should I buy?
Well, first calculate the number of people in attendance at tomorrow's feast. Multiply by 1.5 (white meat) and .75 (dark meat) and add the totals. Multiply that result by -.025 (the pain in the arse vegetarian factor) and add the same amount of strained beets. Divide this result by 5 and add 5 for every whole number (the bone factor) and you should have your turkey size.

Or you could just measure the lowest shelf of your refrigerator and get the biggest Butterball turkey that will fit there.

Should I buy fresh or frozen?
All Butterball turkeys are freshly delivered to your supermarket shelves. We can't speak for other "poultry" distributors but the beat on the street is they get their turkeys via a nationwide search of road kill on the weeks preceding Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. They then "flash freeze" the "birds" to conceal the fact. Our word to you is better safe with Butterball than sorry with some other "bad - bird" producer.

What's the best way to thaw a turkey?
The folks at Butterball have spent considerable time and effort on this very question. Our scientists at the Butterball institute declared last year that the very best way to thaw a turkey is through warm water infusion. If you lack a warm water infuser at home, a hot bubble bath will do the trick.

What's the best way to roast a turkey?
Uuuuummm, with a roaster? Sorry, we don't understand your question.

What do I need to do to the turkey just before roasting?
Butterball enthusiasts claim that a four hour interrogation with a meat tenderizer may soften the old bird up. Additionally, you may want to remove the organs from that neck flap and turning on the oven helps.
Oh, and taking the bird out of the plastic bag helps.

Where does the meat thermometer go?
Must we answer this question.
How do I know the turkey is done?
IT IS A FUGGING BUTTERBALL LAME-O! The patented "thingy" pops up.
We bet you feel really stupid now.

How do I store leftover turkey?
What are you talking about? There SHOULD BE NO LEFTOVER BIRD!!! We just told you how to calculate the right amount of bird to buy! I mean, COME ON!!!

Happy Thanksgiving!

True Stories of Foot In Mouth Disease

2006-11-16T10:45:00.000-05:00

As contractors at a large state agency (substitute large bureacratic firm if you like), it behooves us to keep our mouths shut in times of uncertainty (or uncertain people). Appropos for the holidays, I have an illustrative story.

An acquaintance at the salt mine, let's call him Mr. Say the Wrong Thing, was waiting for the elevator on Thanksgiving Eve not many years ago. It was the end of the work day before the big holiday brouhaha and a statie joined him to wait. Mr. SWT starts up a conversation quite innocently:

Mr. SWT: Hey (statie's name redacted to protect my job), Have a Happy Thanksgiving!
Statie: Hmmmmph.
Mr. SWT: Sorry Statie, did I offend? (let's pause here for a moment to reflect on this second breach of the contractor code: If you say something stupid or offensive, don't follow up by asking the offended for an explanation. It makes the offended feel more so and it makes you, as the offender, look stupid)
Statie: It's my second least favorite holiday, following of course, Columbus Day.
Mr. SWT: umm, sorry.

Did I mention that the statie is a full blooded Cherokee? Consider it mentioned.

Which brings us back to the real reason behind the story. As the holidays are upon us, let us reflect on their real meaning: Making others uncomfortable, no wait, sharing the joy of the season. With that in mind, I found this site and implore you to gather as many bands as possible to alert others that it is OK to celebrate Jesus' birthday joyfully with others.

So, don't be afraid, get a wristband for you, your family, and your Catholic (or separated brethren) friends. This way you let others know that you will not be cowed by political correctness and more importantly, you wish others the joy of the season irrespective of their religious convictions.

Oh, and if I don't see you, Merry Christmas!

So you thought Irish wakes were bad?

2006-11-02T08:54:00.000-05:00

Ever try an Irish christening?

See photo of Uncle Paddy and Uncle Sean below.

We, of the family, pray every day that the uncles will live long enough to see lil' Squirt's 5th birthday.

Nothing Stops Child's Pursuit of Candy

2006-11-01T13:59:00.000-05:00

Happy Day After for all those parents with little kids out there! Happy All Saints Day to the Katlicks!

The rest of you, I don't know, Happy "Only 54 Days 'til Christmas!" Get. off. my. back!

Generally, I am out the door for work at 6:30 in the morn. Yesterday, lil Squirt got up with me,

Then Mommy got up.

Then Junior got up. She hardly ever does that. Perhaps it was the barky cough. Perhaps it was the tears. Either way, I am on the phone with the doctor, ahem Physician's Assistant, on call. We join the call in progress.

MRF: I think she just yakked up a lung! Can somebody see her in half an hour?
PA (Physician's Assistant): The office will be opened at 8:45.
MRF: (To Junior) Is that blood? Holy Cripes, I have to bring you to Urgent Care!
PA: Sir, as her parent, you must do what you think is best. However, we strongly urge you to bring Junior in to the office at 8:45
MRF: What do I have to say to get one of the three real doctors to look at my kid?
PA: Someone will be available at 8:45..

And on it goes...

Heaven forbid someone wake the doctors. Hell, I am a lowly IT drone, but I can haul my carcass to work for 7AM. I don't even have an avocation. I mean, I HATE MY JOB! But come hell or high water, there I am. At. my. desk. Everyday.

What Mr. and Mrs., sorry, Dr. and Mrs. "I want to save the world"...
Too tired?
Worked one day this week already?
Gotta get the kids to school?
Need to have breakfast with the trophy wife/loser husband?
Insurance payments too low?

What? What? What is the reason you friggin docs don't care?

So, anyways. Coughing subsides and Mrs. brings Junior into the docs later in the day. But, in her diligence she did managed to score some serious cough medicine for Junior. I think her conversation went like this:

Mrs Friendly : WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET MY KID SOME COUGH MEDICINE WITH CODEINE????!!!!
Dr Wuss: Well, um, uh, we don't like to prescribe those meds regularly...
MRF: Then next time she has a cold, she can stay with you and your family.
DW: Well, I have never prescribed that medicine for my kids.
MRF (sensing BS): Well, then you will have no trouble caring for Junior at your house! No, seriously, must I bring her to the emergency room to get what I want?!

The following is a quote:
DW: Well, we don't want her to have disjointed care. I will prescribe the meds.
Mrs. found the magic words. Threaten the docs in the pocket book. That's the ticket!

Junior comes home after school and doctor's office. However, her enthusiasm for her favorite holiday (except Christmas) IS NOT DAMPENED! She goes trick or treating not once, not twice, but, as John Kerry would say, thrice.

The witnesses:
1.) Babysitter (1 hour trip)
2.) The mother (1 hour trip)
3.) The father (2 hour trip)

Long story short. 4 hours of fun in the neighborhood. An hour of examining the booty and eating a few pieces. One teaspoon of cough medicine and it is lights out for Junior. God bless adrenaline, sugar crashes, and codeine.

Oh well, it's all good fun.

For the rest of us who be Katlick, make sure you get your arse into a church today. Holy Day and all! Say a couple of prayers to all saints with respect to your salvation.

Can't hurt none. They only want to help.

You see you can't pray for a saint. There isn't anything he or she can do with it. They already got their reward. So you pray to the saints to intercede on your behalf. Thus endeth the theology lesson for today. Trust me, having others in your court can not hurt.

*****************************************************
I have been meaning to post some pictures lately. But I can't right now because fuggin Blogger is giving me the finger. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.

Speaking of tomorrow, don't forget it is All Souls Day. Get in church for a minute or two and pray for someone you really wish gets his heavenly reward.

In the meantime and in the spirit of the holiday, May your Peppermint Patties be few and your Snickers be plentiful!

Big Bad Bob

2006-10-27T10:35:00.000-04:00

All hail my musical rendering of the events before, during, and after the only job (contractual or otherwise) where it was determined that my services were no longer needed. Please sing to Johnny Cash's "Big Bad John" (with my preemptive apologies):

Big Bob
Big Bob

Every mornning at the office, you could see him arrive.
He stood 6 foot 6, weighed 145.
Kind of thin at the shoulders, swayed at the back.
And everybody knew you didn't give no flack to Big Bob.

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big Bad Bob
Big Bob

Nobody seemed to know why Bob was there
He just drifted into work, sat and stared
He didn't say much, kind of quiet and shy
And if you spoke at all, you'd just said hi to Big Bob.
Somebody said he was from Department of Tax,
Where he got into a fight over a unofficial fax.
And a negative review from a political hand,
sent an assistant director to the promise land.

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big bad Bob
Big Bob

Then came the day at that office of mine,
when a statie cracked and memos went flying.
Hindus were praying, and hearts beat fast
and contractors thought they had breathed their last
cept' Bob.
Through the gossip and rumor of this man made hell,
walked a midget of a man that the staties knew well.
Grabbed the first contractor and gave out a groan,
and threw him to the street to stand there alone, Big Bob

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big Bad Bob
Big Bob

And with all of his might, he explained the firing.
But the ousted contractor said, 'there's other people hiring!'.
And 20 men of Mumbai fled from a 'would be' grave
now theres only one left down there to save, Big Bob.
With jacks and timbers, they started back down,
then shut Big Bob up way down in the ground.
And as smoke and coffee belched from that place,
everybody knew they just ran out of space, for Big Bob.

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big Bad Bob
Big Bob

Now they never re-opened that shabby place,
they just put a golden plaque on its face.
These few words are written we know not from,
'At the bottom of all this rubble, lies one Hell of a bum, Big Bob'

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big Bad Bob
Big Bob.

Yeah, it may not be hilarious, but it was funny to me.

Zip your lip!

2006-10-26T13:02:00.000-04:00

Sorry I have lax in posting. You have every right to be annoyed with me as I leave you hanging on the fate of lil Squirt.

Short story is, as expressed yesterday, he's fine.

Actually, he's fantastic.

Except at 3 AM, when he's hungry and suffering the indignity and discomfort of the ol' wet diaper. Then, he's a real pain in the arse.

Long story. Lil Squirt, as we discovered at the 3 (4?) D ultrasound prior to his arrival, had a unilateral, incomplete cleft lip. Palette was, in fact, intact. So, instead of having to suffer through multiple surgeries for palette, lip, ear, etc. correction, he merely needed some cosmetic surgery to fix the lip. Trust me, there are worse things than this. As evidence I offer the following: google "facial cleft." Let me know what you think of those stories.

Alright, back to Lil Squirt. Plastic surgeons, probably at the urging of worried parents, wait only 3 to 6 months before correcting the cleft lip. The reason they cite is that the earlier the operative scar is made, the better the chances are that the scar will fade in appearance. They wait until they believe the infant is of a age/weight where the general anesthesia is not a huge risk.

That was Mrs. Friendly's and my primary concern. Once put down, we hoped that lil Squirt would wake up. Thank God, he did. Now his only worry is his cool scar which may need further surgery dependent on how the lip looks in a few years.

How does he look? Well, the early results are in and I think the results are successful. Despite being a handsome little devil with the split lip, the reconstruction makes him cuter. Hear that ladies!

Speaking of ladies, this kid really attracts attention from the fairer sex. I remember that Junior did and still does get a great deal of attention due to her cuteness, but I notice that nurses, old and young ladies, female doctors are all enamored of the little man. I must remember to tell him that the ladies like cute and he should remain so for efficacious future relations.

Now, after hearing my tale of woe, you might want to do something. Well, I am only too happy to oblige. Although we did not prevail upon both of these institutions for services, they do good work. First off, we have Boston Children's Hospital. Mrs. and I visited twice: once for prenatal testing; the second time for a consult after lil' Squirt was born. In both instances, I was struck by the approach the staff took there. Generally, I am underwhelmed by the level of effort and attitude of those in the medical industry. At Boston Children's, our experience with the staff was phenomenal. They really seem to be dedicated to the service of children. Given that the average level of affliction there is considerably higher than lil' Squirt's, e.g. facial clefts, undeveloped appendages, heart deformations, etc., their level of effort is a blessing indeed. Secondly, we have the Cleft Palatte Foundation, let's call it a clearinghouse for those who suffer, at the very least, as badly as lil' Squirt. For the most part, these kids are much worse shape.

Please, if you can spare a few bucks, send it either way.

Again, thanks for your interest in lil' Squirt and for your thoughts and prayers.

Wink, I'll start the bidding on my dignity at $1,000!

2006-09-22T08:23:00.000-04:00

Politics. Here. Never.

Hugo Chavez. Still in the country. You don't say.

Calls the president the devil. We laugh like hell, say he's muy loco.

Right? Right.

What the fug are these people doing? Please leave an answer in comments.

Here is my interpretation:

Yeah, you're crazy and you're using me as a political tool. But I got to heat my house this winter and I will take help from ANYBODY!

Chavez, sure.
Castro, yeah, why not?
Ahmadinejad, Ok, I don't like Jews or Christians anyways!
Al-Qaeda, the line forms here.

I will not be a tool for Bush! Everyone else make the check out to:
Mr. John Doe
Anywhere, NY
U.S.A.

You want something to pray for? Try praying that these poor bahstahds wise up!

Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together - mass hysteria.

2006-09-20T07:50:00.000-04:00

I just don't get it. My worlds are colliding!

NPR does sports!

What is this, some sort of reverse-karmic, fall semester internship program?

Did they have to cancel the Karl Marx Show? Che Guevara Hour? A few moments (and a few more moments) with Alan Chartock?

Next thing you know Vandenburgh will get his own show on the public dime.

That is all.

To the Religion of Peace, To the People of Peace, To the Continent of Peace

2006-09-18T07:40:00.000-04:00

Another link about smelly, barbaric, retarded Muslims up in arms.

Another link about home for my smelly coworkers.

Another link for my Somali friends.

Every time I hear people bitch and complain about how crummy a nation the U.S. or how fugged the Catholic religion is, I want to puke!

Everyday we should get down on our knees and thank God Almighty that our worst religious nightmare is Jehovah's Witnesses at the door!

Chew on the links for the time being.

It's for the Children!

2006-09-14T07:12:00.000-04:00

Without getting into the id and superego of Christine Wilhelm, I think it is safe to say that her lawyer got the murderess a more lenient sentence. 46 years in the state pen vs. indeterminite time in a "secure" mental facility? The choice is easy.

Put that aside for a moment. District Attorney DeAngelis could have had the case tried again. She chose not. Why? The answer is this post's title.

There is not a day that has gone by that I have not thought about those children. I could just not ask Peter to remember again what happened that terrible night when he has the God given right to forget.

Sorry, I don't buy it. I think that the DA has thought long and hard in two weeks since the conviction was overturned in this case and was only thinking:

How do I get out of this mess!

In the eventuality that Ms. Wilhelm gets out, I am betting the chances are pretty good, her surviving son need not worry. He has an order of protection against her. And that, of course, is for the children too.

That is all.

Let September 11th be remembered as...

2006-09-11T07:26:00.000-04:00

Freaky Fundamentalist IslamoFascist Day!

On today's special edition of "Call Mr. Friendly!," the staff at Mr. Friendly's Fellowship of Jesus' Freaks is making way for the Iman Eddie, leader of the First "Cut Your Throat" Mosque for Peace. The Iman is on the Air:

IE: Good Morning to the believers! And Happy "one more day closer to damnation" for all you infidels out there. Who is first to speak the truth?
Achnad: Hello, my name is Achnad. My son wears a western style tee shirt which says "People Suck" on it in rather large letters. Should I be worried?
IE: Achnad, have no fear. The fruit of your loins is merely giving vent to his feelings of alienation and burgeoning individualism. It might be wise, though in the eyes of Allah, to change the message to "Infidels Suck." You can get one on my website www.imaneddie.com. No cash refunds only credit. Next caller please.

Amatullah: Greetings to you Iman. I am a lowly female servant of Allah. My name is Amatullah! My question is I think my neighbor's wife is a whore, what is the best way to have her stoned?
IE: Make sure you have your husband denounce her at tonight's prayer service. Given the state of your iman's temper, she might be chastised before 8 PM. Next believer please?

Butch: Hello, my name is Butch and I just wanted to tell you that my boyfriend Serge and I think that what you are saying is terrible. We think you should be less judgemental of others and more understanding. My friends and I would love to explain our point of view to you. Do you plan on opening a mosque in the meat packing district?
IE: Infidel Fornicator of Dogs! May you and your illicit lover be damned from Allah's eyes forever. I hope to see you burning in ashes of your family, friends, and loved ones. You are an abomination I wish to blot from the earth!
Butch: Geeezuss, I was only asking a question...
IE: Next caller please

Keshi: Hello, this is Keshi. I believe the world would be a much better place if we could all find a small portion of the planet to call our "personal peace preserve." What do you think?
IE: I think you need to don a burka, find a husband, help him find paradise (complete with 72 virgins), and take solace in the fact that salvation is a man's occupation. Next caller please!

Tony: Hi this Tony from Jersey! Iman Eddie, where's your mosque? Some friends of mine and I wish to partake of services and perhaps interface with you as soon as possible.
IE: Currently I have no permanent mosque. I have been moving services from location to location all over the tri state area. Perhaps we could hold services near you?
Tony: Oh yeah, that would be great! Maybe you should come and peruse our social club ALONE before you hold services there. I, and my friends, could meet you. Our club is called "The Sons of Italy, Newark Chapter." Can you come tonight?
IE: Praise Allah, if it is his will, I will be there at 8 PM.
Tony: Fantastic. Don't forget to come alone.
IE: Who wishes to praise Allah next?

Lou: Hey yeah, this is Lou...your landlord.
IE: How may Allah, through me, help you?
Lou: Yeah, you been dodging me for weeks, where's my rent?
IE: The will of Allah is like the zephyr, in it you will find the whirlwind and your money.
Lou: Huh?
IE: Your time will come when Allah knows you see the light.
Lou: Well, it's unlikely that Allah and I are going to see the things eye to eye. You see, I need your rent to contribute to my temple.
IE: You are a Jew?
Lou: Ummm, yeah.
IE: Damnable piece of human debris. You will get your money...NEVER! Do not speak to me again as I was pure in the eyes of Allah, now I am defiled by having listened to ramblings of Jew....(ah you get the picture)

See you next time on Freaky Fundamentalism with Mr. Friendly. And don'tforget what happened five years ago today.

The hits just keep coming...

2006-09-08T08:16:00.000-04:00

Jack Gass, regional marketing director for Mr. Friendly Inc., Northeast Division, recently pulled me aside to go over the statcounter statistics for this here site.
"Um, yeah, were going to have to ease back on the potty mouth, Mr. Friendly." Jack is not one to pull punches.
"What?" I reply feigning ignorance.
"Look, ok, I know I told you to pepper your blog remarks with words like: boobs, breasts, cooter, glory hole, penis, enlargement, augmentation, viagra, money, honey, spot, naked, sex, and the like, but I think you are going to have to come in tomorrow and edit some of your earlier posts."
"Jeebus," I replied (yeah I do talk like this), "what did you find?"
"MrF., just go ahead and edit the circumcision stories, ok?"

Seems we are getting pummeled with hits from Pune, Mararahstra, India that look like this NOT WORK SAFE!!!!!.

I raise my coffee cup in salute to the fine, upstanding, Shiva fearing citizens of Pune.

Morons. Don't even realize we stopped circumcising transvestite MILFs here in the U.S. years ago.

Valtrex Or What your Partner Does Not Share With You Concerning the Large Sores in and Around his Genital Area

2006-09-06T14:46:00.000-04:00

I'm back baby, I'm back. -- MrF

No one missed you jagass. -- MrF's readers

Ok, so I am spinning the dial over the weekend. Between EWTN and the Discovery Channel, I think I caught about 420 different commercials pumping Valtrex. All I can say is:

It's gold, Jerry, GOLD!

I love these spots. There is our lucky virus sufferer telling the world that he (or she) and his penis (or vagina) are back mixing it up, so to speak. AND he has his (or her) partner here to tell you how fuggin' wonderful genital herpes life is.

Picture it. Your there in your darkened room convalescing from the latest breakout when the white coats from GlaxoSmithKline come to rescue. Your daily treatment of Valtrex sends you from social pariah to a sex machine. Aren't you just a little bit sad that you made fun of the science geeks in high school now?

In lieu of running photos of infected areas, I will steal material from the Valtrex FAQ and supply my own answers:

How common is genital herpes?
It is estimated that some 45 million suffer from genital herpes. Although that is alot of people that doesn't prevent the other 5.95 billion people on earth from thinking they are sexually unclean.

How can I reduce the risk of spreading the herpes virus?
Ummm, let me think. Stop fuggin' goats! No seriously, you might want to, yeah, stop fuggin' goats! Not screwing other humans may help too.

How can my partner find out if he or she has genital herpes?
JEEBUS! How the hell did you find out? Did the appearance of sores in your genital area help?

I’m in a long-term relationship – if I just found out I have genital herpes, does that mean my partner has been sexually unfaithful?
Yes, consider lashing out as soon as he (or she) gets home. I have the number of some folks in Trenton who can make your problems, ahem, disappear.

If I think I have genital herpes, what should I do?
Take Valtrex stupid. No seriously, panic is good. No seriously, take Valtrex.

Is there an increased risk of catching other sexually transmitted diseases (STDs) if I have genital herpes?
Hey, I am no statistician but, I think the chances are good.

This frank and open discussion is presented as a public service.

Yeah, we take requests...

2006-09-01T11:31:00.000-04:00

Cooper (last night): When are you going to post about poker again? (lots of yeahs from the other players)

Alright kiddies, here you go. You all suck!

That's right. I get an assortment of shatty cards that in total don't add up to eleven, and I am supposed to sing the virtues of poker.

Fug that!

Ok, it wasn't that bad. In the first game, I doubled up on BMW when he called my push on the river. His pocket pair could not crack my might AJh after a Jack flopped and a beautiful A on the river.

Two pair. Two pair! Give it to me, baby!

Cooper doubled me up later when her newly found aggressiveness fell victim to another instance of blind chicken catching a piece of corn (you know it's bound to happen every once in awhile).

It was alright for her. She ended up sending me to the rail in second when her A9 kicked my K8 in the groin for the win.

Other lowlights:
FlyingDane regaled us with his recent victories on Full Tilt. He further regaled us with tales of high liver function, high cholesterol, and highly dark urination. He will join us next week for the game if the doctors release from the ICU. At our table the Dane got sucked and knocked out, not once, but twice. Back to the virtual tables for you Flying Dane!

Like I said, Cooper is pushing and shoving her big stack (did I say that!) around. No more Ms. Nice Lady Calling Station! Prepare to have your nuts, excuse me, limps, excuse me again, feeble bets raised until it hurts.

BMW raced out to a healthy chip lead in the first game only to run into me, see above.

LetsChat ate a hole through my ear and left temporal lobe after he called a healthy reraise from BMW (clearly holding a high pair) while he held 8s in the hole. I made the mistake of questioning the call, after BMW showed his Aces, and heavens of defensive chatter rained down upon my head. I make you this promise, gentle reader, I will never question that guy's play to his face again.

theHost and MarkyMark were quiet. Maybe they did better in the second game.

What? I didn't see the results of the second game? That's right, I have little kids at home and a wife on the verge of a mental breakdown. But that's not why I left.

I am in the fuggin' big blind. I get dealt my typical fuggin' hand for the evening (82o). Several fuggin' limpers including lilRicky. The fuggin' flop comes with an 8 and a deuce. Giddy fuggin' up! I bet the fuggin' pot. Everyone fuggin folds, except Fuggin' Ricky. Fuggin' calling station. I put him on top pair (jack) and off we go to see the turn. It is a fuggin' ten. Without thought of danger, I fuggin push. He fuggin calls and flips, you guessed it, fuggin J10! Fug him!

Other news. We shamed WallyBall into playing the second game. He lasted almost as long as me. You see, he has a kid too.

I can't remember much else since I was a.) sleep deprived and b.) still bent about my fuggin' play against lilRicky. That's alright. I am your biatch now but someday that bell will be tolling for you, lilRicky, and I will be right there singing hallelujah!

Talk to you after I get over this feeling of turning my desk over. Have a fuggin' happy Labor Day.

Defending the Motherblog

2006-08-30T07:13:00.000-04:00

Listen, I don't come over to ur blog and call u names. So don't u b dissing this here blog.

Not to my face anyways. What u say in the privacy of ur own mind or blog is ur bidnez.

I was called a racist.
Not once.
Not twice.
But in the words of the near presidential John F. Kerry, thrice.

Well, I may be, but I doubt it. It's like theHost, the amiable host of our weekly poker game, said last week, "How can you be a racist, you hate everybody?"

That's right I am an equal opportunity misanthrope.

So if you, or someone you know, suspects me of singling out people due to their race solely, please drop me a line in comments or email and I will try to broaden my focus of ridicule.

By the way, I came up with a short list of things that are worse than being a racist. Again feel free to add your entries via comments or email. Without further ado:
1.) Pedophile
2.) Serial killer
3.) CEO of Standard and Poor's 500 firm that goes belly up due to your ill conceived money making ideas and subsequent cover up of losses. Your firm's bankruptcy puts thousands of people out of work and destroys the retirement savings of thousands more.
4.) Money grubbing preacher man. (or woman, I'm not sexist)
5.) Islamofascist
6.) Wife/child beater/rapist (I know I have child rapist there twice, shut up, I'm on a roll)
7.) Street gang member
8.) Drug dealer/pimp
9.) Tort lawyer
10.) The guy who came up with "I'm luvin' it" ad for McDonals's
11.) Politician, any party.
12.) Some ill read, ill informed, and just plain ill twentysomething blogging your life away while tens of thousands of lonely, deluded middle aged males from across the globe think they have a shot at you because you were fool (exhibitionist) enough to put your picture up in your blog. Your additional crimes include: claiming fluency with the English language and displaying none; living under the illusion that people want to hear your facile take on the world around you when, in fact, your audience mostly wants to see nude pictures; finally, going off on me after reading ONE comment I made on someone else's blog.

Aaaaaahhhh. I feel better already.

By the by number two: why do people resort to calling others racist if and only if their particular race is made the butt of the joke? You don't see me crying foul everytime someone tells a drunken Irish joke. Suppose my object of ridicule were Pakistanis, then I would probably have the entirety of India on my side.

It's like my friend Sudhakhar says: "We wish the government would let us push the Pakistanis into an ocean." (True story)

Indeed, I need to work on my racial sensitivity.

That is all.

My car runs on beer fumes...

2006-08-29T07:24:00.000-04:00

I have a pile of beer bottles in my garage even the most degenerate of gaspipes would be proud to have...Even the most diligent of panhandling, bottle seeking hobo would be impressed.

I mean had. They are all in my car trunk right now.

My plan is to return them and get a free twelve pack (or two six packs, no diff) in the bargain.

95% of the bottles are from an obscure Danish brewery, perhaps you heard of it.

Didn't think so.

What to choose? What to choose? What to choose?

I am leaning towards my socialist friends from the Republic of Europe, but that doesn't really solve anything for me.

Do I go back to Denmark?

Perhaps the Czech Repuplic?

Or my native Ireland?

Fug the choices, I am getting all three.

A word to my mass production beer brewing friends, FUG THE FLASH SITES!

I just want a picture of your beer bottle so I can post it on my site. I should not need a PhD in Software Engineering to point google in the right direction.

All I want, need, is a picture of a bottle (glass) of your beer and perhaps a pretty maid or two holding one. That is not too much to ask.

One more fugging slip up and I am returning to wine.

All right, I lied, you will never get rid of me but could you please make your websites cooler.

As a side note, to those two readers not already impressed with my wordsmith and fathering skills, I think you need to note something about me: I gathered up my treasure trove of beer bottles while lil Squirt hung on for dear life.

That's right! Lil Squirt and me are quite impressive.

Cell Phone Germ Farm

2006-08-25T19:46:00.000-04:00

At Mr. Friendly Laboratories, a division of Mr. Friendly Industries, Inc., we spend countless hours and resources studying the effects of stories like this. As saddened as we are by the spread of bacteria, like Staphylococcus aureus, we are heartened that ailments like pimples, boils, pneumonia and meningitis could be prevented by upgrading to a newer, cooler communication device.
Here at the lab though, malady mitigation is great but, prevention through causal study is even better. So we put our best minds to work on how in the hell the germs got on the cell phones in the first case. Through careful study, mainly searches on the internet, our scientists discovered that Staphylococcus aureus exists in the air, food, food equipment, dust, and SEWAGE.
That last item got our brains working. How the hell does sewage (or, let's be honest human waste) get on a cell phone? For many minutes we sat in the lab in silence until our resident genius, Dr. Savage, came up with a plausible reason.

It occurred to Adam that a spike in interpersonal rage combined with the high levels of heat generated by the cell phone would generate the perfect breeding ground for Staphylococcus aureus. Dr. Savage's hypothesis theorized that a sufficiently obnoxious cell phone user could in fact enrage an otherwise normally social human being into performing an act with the cell phone and its user that would result in the diagram below. We leave it to the reader to ponder the various iterations.

Since prevention is the name of our game, The Mr. Friendly Laboratories propose that undisciplined cell phone users place a barrier,preferably latex, around their cell phone in order to mitigate the results of cell phone rage. Until such time that our firm brings the cell phone prophylactic to market, might we suggest cell phone jagasses go to their favorite drugstore, purchase some Trojans (germicidal please) and place one over their cell phone.

Thank you for your continued interest.

And have a nice weekend.

Freaky Fundamentailst Phone Line

2006-08-23T12:57:00.000-04:00

As part of our ongoing efforts to save souls, Mr. Friendly International Christian Fellowship extends a hearty welcome to your questions and comments. May we have the first caller please:

Ruth: Hi. This is Ruth in Cohoes. I was born again in 1997.
MrF: God bless you Ruth.
Ruth: Thank you. My question is: Suppose I know the Rapture is right around the corner, so I, along with my fellow believers in Jesus Christ, my personal savior, will soon be swept up to our reward (and dodge death in the bargain). Should I continue to do housework, go grocery shopping, mow the lawn, etc.
MrF: Well Ruth, I'll tell you what my sponsors in Christ Jesus told me when I asked a similar question prior to being reborn: "What do you care, it's all going to burn anyways." Here's to seeing you in glory shortly. Next caller please.

Joe: His this Joe from Albany. Will I be good with Jesus if habitually stiff hardworking, yet ignorant, wait staff when I go out to eat?
MrF: Hey Joe, good to hear from you praise the lord. There is no mention of tipping in the Bible. So I think you are ok. Come to think of it, Jesus mentioned giving unto Caesar that which is his, and you know, the money is yours, so feel joyous, you will find yourself in heaven some day. We're talking to Heather.

Heather: Hi, this is Heather in Loudonville. Love your service here. My husband and I will be attending a Promise Keepers event later this year. Of course I will be seated in the back with the other ladies, but I was wondering if it is ok for me to wear something a little less "frumpy" to the festivities. I mean, I am still a good looking woman but my husband says "Gingham or don't go."
MrF: Oh, Heather, I am praying for you now. You are walking a tightrope over the abyss. An abyss that, if you fall in, your soul will be forever tormented by flame and demons. Your husband is looking out for your soul. Listen to him, he knows best! He knows your pride in your appearance will damn you to hell for all eternity. Listen to him! Additionally, he knows that if you dress in a sexy and or provocative way, you will only stoke the fires of his own loinful lust. Tell the clothing demons to STAND BACK, your eternal soul is at stake. By the by, did you know that the fashion industry is dominated by the homosexual cartel? A blow against them is a blow for Christian righteousness. Next call please.

Hong: Hello, sir. This is Hong from Troy. Can Buddhists find Jesus?
MrF: See you in Hell Hong! Next call please.

To be continued

Let's Review

2006-08-22T07:49:00.000-04:00

Back in January, I wrote a little tidbit about etiquette. Through observation, I learned that the message has not reached all of you. For the recalcitrant retards, I present the following in the hopes that they will wise up.

Cellphones in the men's room are a NO NO. They are distracting and not in compliance with the common, yet unwritten, code of etiquette.

Last week, I lined up next to some jagass on his cellphone. He cradled it with his chin and shoulder while he did his dirty work with both hands. As he went on about some technical mumbo-jumbo, I wondered if the person(s) he was speaking to knew where he was and what he was doing. For their sake, I considered flicking the phone off his shoulder into the urinary stew below. It took all my self control, but I did resist the urge.

Instead, I posted this really cool sign in the john.

Next up is the moron who goes to the office restroom, urinates, then gives a cursory hand wash. And by cursory, I mean a 1 second splash of water to the fingertips. Look, I know water is a great solvent BUT
1.) You need to get more than your fingertips on one hand wet.
2.) Soap increases the surface tension of the water, thus improving its ability to lift scum from your hands.
3.) Soap has antibacterial agents designed to KILL the coliform bacteria that is all over your hands after urination.
4.) Spare me your bullshat efforts to prove to me and the other restroom user that you are not a sewer rat. Those efforts, sir, are in vain.

Don't believe me about the bacteria, check this out.

So, to summarize: don't use your cellphone in the john; wash your fugging hands when you are done.

Goddam, I sound like my mother. Only she used to give me a kick in the arse when I acted like a fugging pig. Upon consultation with Mom, I am considering her method.

Either way, there will not be a third warning.

I'm working, go elsewhere.

2006-08-21T08:55:00.000-04:00

We changed some things as this here blog. Less poker, that's good. More bullshat, that's better.

Take a look to your right. You will see a plethora of new links. Let's take the quick tour:

AlbanyEye has been around for awhile. Generally, I hate left leaning smartarses, but he's willing to give a behind the scenes look at local media. Plus, he has a helluva sense of humor. Mr. Friendly says "Read."

Shamus and JohnnyVirgil give their perspective on life in the Capital Region. I think both are IT people, if that's a plus. Either one can bring on the funny in a heartbeat. Mr. Friendly says "Must Read."

iSaratoga reports on doings a tad North. Saratoga County is his domain. Generally an excellent read, despite Communist leanings.

TroyPolloi is the BEST at giving the lowdown on local politics. Even if you could care less about the Collar City, you should check it out because Democratus knows how things work over there. Plus, he too, has the knack for comedy.

Howie Carr is not just the best columnist in Boston, but the funniest one too. You need to read a few columns to get in touch with Boston way, but when you do, I promise fun.

Although Democracy in Albany generally sees but the abject horror of Republicans and absolute virtue of Democrats, she does turn over rocks in the political garden. So read and watch the creepy crawlies squirm.

Anonymous Coworker is just a boon to anyone who works in an office.

The Phoenix is what I hope to be when I grow up. Someone who has an intelligent and skeptical view of the world. He then uses that perspective to slam all kinds of pseudoscience scams.

McBlogger offers her perspective on life, love, career, parenting, and photography from The Great White North. She found her way here and we hope she stays.

ag is abrasive. Mr. Friendly says he likes his ladies that way.

Lightning Bug is a witty, sardonic, clever writer. That is not why he is linked. I put him up because of the large, and I do mean large, community of women that read. every. word. he. writes. Mr. Friendly says check it out.

Joe Speaker is my last remaining poker blogger. Despite that, his blog is less about bad beats and poker strategy than it is about good times and laughter. Mr. Friendly says give it a try.

I am tired of this shat. Go click on a link. Why, because I said so!

Everybody Hates This Clown.

2006-08-17T15:04:00.000-04:00

During the summer months, the Town of Colonie hosts a number of kiddie events . You know, a little something to keep the tykes entertained while the wise parents catch a few z's in the back of the room. Things must be awfully tight at our local library as last night's entertainment left much to be desired.

Bob the Clown did not dazzle or amuse. He did not arouse giggles or excitement. Generally he showed little interest in anything "clown related." As he got more and more disinterested in his own performance, he began a monologue on how his life has gone sour and how the man done him wrong. Our progeny didn't understand many of the details but were certain that their clown was NO FUGGING FUN AT ALL.

When confronted with his ineptitude by Junior and some of her peers, he turned on the kids. First he spoke harshly, calling our greatest achievements brats and little shats. Then he got progressively meaner, dropping a f-bomb or two. The children, confused and hurt, began to riot. In the hoopla, some parents were roused enough to chase him out of the library. Due to the chaos, adults were generally unable to help with a good description for the police. Colonie's finest, being, well, pretty good, took voluminous notes from their only reliable witnesses. Below is the flyer the police printed.

Please take a good look and if you are in the area, keep your eyes open. Me, I will be spending the weekend explaining divorce, welfare, and the DTs to Junior.

Everybody, in my house, hates clowns.

Rise and Shine!

2006-08-16T07:47:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, I read a news story where some people needed to point something out to their neighbors and anyone that might come near their house.

Been really busy here in the salt mine. My latest application strikes a blow for workforce productivity. I got a little sneak peek for you below. Click on the image to enlarge if you must.

Experiments in Social Retardation

2006-08-15T13:16:00.000-04:00

Mr. Friendly found this page quite interesting.

You say there is a group of people that can't help but say something, well, retarded. That, if locked in a room, with members of a control group (read normal people) and other members of the maladjusted, these morons will invariably act in socially unacceptable fashion.

As usual, the social science geeks are only telling you half the story. Afraid to impact negatively on the self esteem of goofs everywhere, they neglected to report other findings.

1.) Subjects were observed when experimenters uttered "All dweebs say what." 10% of the control group said "What?" That figured jumped to 96% for those deemed to be social retards.
2.) Of married geeks studied, 99% regaled testers with tales of their spouse's recent urological, proctological, gynecological or plastic surgery. Median length of the monologues was 30 minutes.
3.) In specialized studies centering on IT consultants and clients, it was found that H1B consultants were 100 times more likely to tell their clients that they were fugged up and could only survive technologically through services provided by these same consultants. Interestingly, language specialists found 4,562 ways to say "You insult me with your inferior intellect!" in Bengalese. The results in Hindi were 5,435. As a footnote, it was discovered that "I don't know." is a phrase foreign in both languages.
4.) 75% single adult dorkish men who live with their parents compared many of their day to day personal interactions to relationships detailed in comic books and Star Wars movies. The other 25% were scientifically declared, ahem, "whipped."
5.) Single adult socially retarded women were 10 times more likely than the control group to tell strangers about their past, disastrous relationships. A significant number of these (P=.87, t = .00001) could be characterized with violent climaxes.
6.) Poker playing bloggers, special subgroup of the cohort, impressed testers with their massive egos and interminable tales of victories at the gaming tables. This group was further characterized by their contempt for all other humans "non-poker or poorly players. (sic donkeys)"
7.) Single, adolescent and young adult male retards were 50 times more likely to sport tatoos on their biceps, use hair gel, and call their peers by the "N" word.
8.) Single, adolescent and young adult female goofs were 50 times more likely to sport chinese symbol tatoos near or on their buttocks. A full 100 percent of these females thought the male dweeb was beneath her consideration.

Mr. Friendly presents these results in the hope that his readers will one, not find him(her)self in the studied group; two, run after identification of suspected social retard.

Carry on.

What the hell are they teaching them in school?

2006-08-14T07:40:00.000-04:00

This is going to be quick. I should be in a meeting right now. Ahhhh, I have my priorities.

This past weekend, the Mrs. and I took the kids to an amusement park. Well, since one kid is only 6 weeks old, I guess we took a kid to the amusement park. On third thought, both kids went so,...

Anyways, yesterday I am at the "all you can eat" breakfast (highly recommended) when I hear the following:
16 year old hostess: She said she had a blueberry doughnut...
16 year old busboy: They is no such thing. She must have meant bagel.

This is where I stepped in. Never let it be said that I let this kind of abject doughnut ignorance remain uncorrected.

Mr. Friendly: Indeed, the Dunkin makes a wonderful blueberry doughnut. In fact, they make two.
Busboy: I did not know that.
Mr. Friendly: You will have to order one on your next visit.
Hostess: Are you from around here?
Mr. Friendly: I live a mere 45 miles away unlike your usual riffraff. Would you like some directions to doughnut happiness?
Hostess: That's ok. Thanks for watching my back.
Mr. Friendly: My pleasure. Have a lovely day.

So, what the fug are they teaching kids these days anyways?

Pffft. No. blueberry. doughnuts.

Amateurs.

See that kid in the wheelchair? Bean him!

2006-08-10T13:25:00.000-04:00

I was listening to the Dan Patrick show on the way home yesterday. He was generating some talk by bringing up this story in Sports Illustrated. Generally, I don't synchronize my outrage with the ESPN guys because, you know, they go to bat for alot of questionable personalities...
Where's the Barry Bonds outrage?
or Terrel Owens?
Ricky Williams?
Mark McGwire?

OK, you get the point. These folks save their sanctimony for some nobody Pony League coach who has the temerity to intentionally walk the league's best hitter so his pitcher can try his hand at striking out a cancer survivor.

Outrageous? Hell, yeah.
Despicable? In a game where they cap the runs scored to four an inning, yeah, this is pretty bad behavior.
Par for the course in the world of peewee athletics? You betcha.

I remember, back in the day, when my little league coach would make us run laps for losing a game. I remember riding the bench in high school basketball because coach was working on a dynasty or some such shat. When I played football, I saw alot of time but there was always one or two dudes who went to every practice, gave it their all and saw nothing but garbage time in the games. These, of course, don't compare to the egregious behavior cited above but, I'm thinking it is only a difference in degree.

Anyways, that is not really the point of this post. The point is Radio Dan opened the lines for phone calls. The second dude on the line says, and I quote:
"I don't know what the big deal is. Just because you are a cancer survivor, doesn't mean you get a free pass."

I had to pull over the car I was laughing so hard.

Yeah chief, you're right. You don't have to go to chemo anymore! So, be a Man!

Clearly this moron needs to be schooled in Mr. Friendly's axiom number 311. It is, and I quote:

In the world of cancer, the only thing worse than being a survivor, is not being a survivor.
***********************************************************************************
In other news, just wanted to thank ag, McBlogger, Phoenix, Shamus for their kind words. and, um Welcome Aboard the short bus, I guess.

Mayor of Currytown

2006-08-09T08:49:00.000-04:00

Verily, I have nothing against those who come to America's shores to expand their opportunities and liberties.

Take, for instance, my boss, the project manager at this here IT shop.

Dapper fellow, no?

The other day, as we discussed various database solutions for a particular challenge here at the ol' worksite, I stopped Gupta as he drew 412th diagram of the database.

"Mr. Gupta," I said, always respectfully.
"Heebeewa, Friendly." he replied.
"Pardon me."
"You are pardoned. Might I continue drawing?"
"In a moment. Could you explain to me why you are drawing all these diagrams of tables, relationships, columns, processing flows, etc.?"
"So you may develop a deeper understanding of the inner workings of business process, technology flows, and database infrastructure."
"Oh."
"I would like to continue my dissertation," he told me.
"In a moment. I have a follow up question. Why is it that you think I need a deeper understanding of business process, technology flows, and database infrastructure?"
"As your superior in this information technology department, I have been tasked with educationing my subordinates on the importantcy of information technology issues."
"Oh."
"May I continue?" he asked.
"Mr. Gupta, how much experience do you have in Information Technology?"
He took a deep breath and said "I have a bachelor's degree in Computer Technologies from the Bengal Institute of Higher Computer Learning. After finishing my studies, I amassed fifteen years experience in database , ten years experience in Java, and twenty five years of experience in Visual Basic. While I got much experience in various technologies, I educated myself in the information management arts culminating in a degree of higher learning at the Mumbai Center for Information Technology Management Excellence. There I was first in my class."
"Pardon me for being so bold, but are you in the United States on a work visa?"
"Of course, Mr. Friendly. I am H1B for the last six months."
"This shop is your first sponsor."
"Oh no," he said, "I have obtained three other sponsors this year."
"I promise this is my last question," I said, "but how old are you?"
"I will be twenty five this fall."
And he continued to draw me some pictures.

************************************************************************************
During my lunchtime constitutional last week, some blue hair passed me a leaflet. I guess the hippies were having a gathering in Washington Park soon to commemorate the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Commemorate is probably the wrong word. Feeling sad and guilty about stopping Japanese imperialism probably nails it.

I took the leaflet back to the office, with the intention of dumping it at my earliest convenience. Sorry, I don't feel particularly guilty about Truman ending World War II.

This suave young fellow visits my desk in the afternoon. Glances at the leaflet that I forgot to throw away and says:
"It is very sad that America killed so many thousands."
Really...
"Yes, it is very sad that the Japanese did not surrender when we asked. Verily, it would be sadder if America lost many more thousands trying to conquer Japan island by island.," I answered.
"But the Japanese did surrender."
"Not unconditionally."
"Yes they did. Don't you know that history is often written by the victorious."
Hmm. Momentarily, I thought about throwing this buffoon down several flights of stairs. Instead, I asked some questions.
"Suppose we didn't drop the bomb, do you think India would be independent?"
"Do you think you could work in the United States?
"Do you think you would be standing around, annoying me, or drawing a bath for your Japanese overlords?

That's what they say about me. I am harsh but fair.

***********************************************************************************
We lost another H1B the other day. He thought he was irreplaceable.

INTERRUPTION: As an aside, Mr. Friendly stipulates that NO ONE is irreplaceable.

So anyways, he is full of the milk of human hubris. As his contract comes to a close and it is time to bid again (perfunctory of course, but I like it too), his sponsor puts him up for the job. He is duly selected...

THEN

He gives his company an ultimatum. "Give me a raise or I am gone!"

He's gone.

Funny thing is the client was left to drop the ax. They did it late one recent Friday afternoon.

Go figure.

To one of the other Americans here, I ask,
"Don't the habibs realize there is no negotiating with slaves."
***********************************************************************************

That, my friends, is why they call me the "Mayor of Currytown."

If you, or someone you know is interested in finding out more about the beloved H1B program, please visit this site.

What to say to the Border Patrol

2006-08-09T07:29:00.000-04:00

All right! Score one for the good guys.

I don't know, all these criminal masterminds...
It's funny the driver didn't claim that the Mexicans must have gotten into the upholstery through some "one in a million" car detailing accident.

That is all.

Poker, my once and future friend.

2006-08-07T14:26:00.000-04:00

So Friday night, Junior wants to go to the local kiddie ride and putt-putt golf-a-rama. Mrs. volunteers to bring her. That leaves me and lilSquirt, who is looking like he would rather be in happysleepland, dreaming of, um, you know, "milk dispensers."

Time for...POKAH shenannigans!

Let the games begin. Time to call 8 newly made friends to the No Limit Hold 'Em table on PokerStars and try my luck at losing $50,

Not so random notes
1.) So I don't limp in to 80% of the pots. That must mean I AM THE FUGGING ROCK, baby. Well kids, that's what my opponents thought. After my 3x BB raises from under the gun were met by 8 folds 3 times, I knew it was time to:
a.) Play shatty cards limpily
b.) Win a pot or two
c.) Show same shatty cards
Didn't work out. Oh, I won. A lot of little pots. But my opponents sensed my aura of invulerability and begged off when I played the hammah, 83 offsuit, a jack and a four,...anything.

It got real boring real quick. So I switched tables. Same fuggin thing.

Now I don't play enough to have someone check out my tendencies. So I am stuck here wondering WTF? Really, I just want to play. C'mon fellas, please call me down with worst pair. Please.

2.) MarkyMark on Poker:
I'd rather gnaw off my right arm than play poker. So, no, I will not play.
Oh. But poker is lovely game when you are sucking out on your friends. A few river suckouts come your way and you shat your knickers. I only have one thing to say to FuManMark:
Your slip is showing

3.) Ok there was one hand where I made some money. I get AJc and raise it up 5x. Get one caller (I was so excited to see a flop). Flop is A-7-poop. I make a feeler bet of 3/4's of the pot cause I am thinking if this dude had a strong ace, he would have raised. He calls (Me likey). A fishy call if ever I saw one. No way does he have a high ace. Turn is like a 3 or something and this time I pot it. He min raises me and I raise enough to put him, how do you say, "All you can eat, baby!"
He calls, the river matches the board (not a seven) and we both show...

He had a seven and a four. He lost a lot of money.

I did not question his play in chat or in my mind. I did not berate him. I merely thanked God for placing me in the right place, right time.

Then I logged off.

I will go fishing again some other night.

Not because...

2006-08-07T07:32:00.000-04:00

Listening to Vandenburgh on the way in...

He was talking about some retarded poll and cited that 86% of those asked WOULD NOT date someone with gray hair.

OK. We like 'em young.

Pauly then chats up the news girl.
"You are happily married. I am happily married. I have gray hair but if we weren't, married would you consider..."
Uncomfortable silence
"So, you're part of the 86%."
Newsgirl chimes in "Well, it's not because of your gray hair."

That one is for you, AlbanyEye.

I wish I knew how to quit you.

2006-08-03T07:56:00.000-04:00

Hey Batman fans!

Guess who's playing the Joker in the upcoming sequel?

I always thought his animus for the caped crusader was a bit of the love/hate thing.

Yeah, it's easy. Yeah, it's cheap. But, I'm fuggin' busy this week ok!

That is all.

Calling Dr. Gaspipe!

2006-08-01T14:25:00.000-04:00

I would say that somewhere in the neighborhood of 80% (4 out of 5) of my readers knows that lil' Squirt will need some surgery to repair his imperfection. The surgery could hardly be called invasive however, it's fuggin surgery. Whatever, if you have seen the kid or heard me talk about him you know.

Which brings the Mrs. and me to the point of interviewing surgeons.

Woo hoo! You know how I feel about doctors. All quiet assurance until you ask them the trick question. You know, the specific, empirically based one like:
"Hey Doc, since you want me to help out with your car/boat/vacation home payments, how 'bout showing me the results of your latest wranglings in human meets scalpel series?"

"Huh, what, ...the temerity...don't you realize the privacy covenants of doctor/patient privilege are SACRED?"

OK. Moving right along to contestant #2: "Sawbones, show me why I should trust you with my son's life?"

"Well, I have an established practice of nearly 20 years dealing mostly in pediatrics.."

Wait right there. Refer me to three of your latest CUSTOMERS with the same ailment.

"Well, I can't do that! Those people entrust me with their deepest medical secrets..."

That's all I need to know. NEXT!

Suggestion to one and all physicians out there. If you are interested in drumming up business, do what the plastic surgeons do: report on a website, be specific, and offer referrals. Otherwise, you run the risk of losing the PIA (pain in ass) clientele.

Fortunately for my 5 readers this is not the point of my post.

The Mrs. and I head to the surgery group's office. Therein, we are seated in the cavernous waiting room so we might sweat it out with the injured, the sickly, the convalescing, and the "ready to pitch" salespeople. I grab a number (cool, 4,559,003, me lucky number) and wait.

We are called in after a 10 minute wait. Not bad considering the mob in the waiting room.

In the examination room, I look for a seat while the Mrs. sits down and gives lil Squirt a snack. I grab the examination table. And we wait.

I am immediately impressed when the doctor enters the room. I am quite impressed he made it to the office today. Close your eyes and imagine: disheveled hair, ink on his hands, bleary eyed, unstable feet. In a word, I'm thinking "Alky."

He seals the deal when he opens his mouth:
"Now, who are you again?"
"I've seen you before?"
"Yes, the defect is complete, I think."
"Did I write a letter to your insurance company? I am sure I did. It must have gotten lost."
"I feel like my hair is on fire!"

Social retardation was considered...for a moment. After watching him do the following:
a.) lean on wall
b.) try to stand upright.
c.) get upright but,
d.) leave a file he had behind his back
I figured the real culprit may be physical and/or chemical.

Later, when the Mrs. asked me what I thought he was on, I was open minded.
"Honey, he's either having a really bad day or a whole lot of vodka."

I am certain that your certainty is uncertain.

2006-07-31T11:46:00.000-04:00

Not that I enjoy standing with the bible bangers (Katlicks included), but the atheists really, really, really piss me off. Want to know why? Sure you do.

1.) Non believers, from here on out let's call them the Unclean, say that God's existence can't be proven. I stipulate. That is what faith is about. I believe despite the lack of evidence. However, can the unclean prove he does not exist? Really. Are you willing to stipulate that your lack of faith is based on faith.

2.) Ipso facto, non believers have their own religion. The religion of scoffing, of nothing, of narcissism, of the iconoclast. It is fair to say they believe in nothing, not even their own existence. Fallacious thinking on their part. I don't know about you, but I think it might be wise to be skeptical of the unclean.
If you throw in with them and they are wrong, YOU ARE SCREWED. However, we all have doubts on God's existence, but we go ahead proclaim our faith. Why? Cause, like my father's friend Shakes Robinson said when asked why he carried a piece "Better to be caught with it than to be caught without it."

3.) If you believe, as I do, that people are selfish, thoughtless, hostile, socially, emotionally, mentally retarded than you got to believe in miracles. Because for all our faults, and they are multudinous, we have yet to destroy ourselves. Additionally, we got truly sainted individuals coming down the pipe every now and then (e.g. MLK, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Princess Di, etc.). I, on an article of faith, attribute these outcome to a spark of divinity in all our souls by some one much smarter than us who loves us very much.

4.) I think the point of Harris' End of Faith is that Reason demands the end of Religion because the latter is the cause of much conflict in the world. Now that Man has weapons of mass destruction, these conflicts could lead to the END OF THE WORLD. Hell, I don't know but isn't the very existence of the US, Britain, Canada, Australia, and the rest of the West is an argument that those prejudices that kept men apart are slowly melting away?

5.) Last, and most compelling, I listen to the atheists among us. They are among some of the most angry, twisted, retarded among us (I could link 'em up, but it wouldn't be Christian). Measured against Jesus, it kind of makes it easy to choose your side. It is like Mom said "You are the company you keep."

On the other hand, I could be wrong. But what will that cost you?

I promise more Stupid Medical Stories as soon as I figure out the point.

One more parking lot.

2006-07-27T22:31:00.000-04:00

Well, the wait is over. Cohoes had another fire on Wednesday.

Who would have thunk it?

Cohoes Fire Captain Michael Spizowski?
Police Chief William Heslin?
Mayor John McDonald?

Try some of the tenants in the burned out buildings. They think the landlord did it.

That is pretty harsh. I hope it isn't true.

By the by, I quit my job today. I am starting a residential demolition company in, wait a minute, Cohoes.

Talk about your growth industries.

Happy Opening Day!

2006-07-26T07:05:00.000-04:00

In my first annual celebration of the Saratoga Race (Flat) Track's opening day, I would like to commemorate the long and prolific life of the great Track patron: Mary Lou Whitney.

Top Ten Things Younger Than Mary Lou Whitney
1.) My Parents (working on octagenarian status, Thanks Mom and Dad!)
2.) The Internet (thank you Al Gore)
3.) Mass Indoor Plumbing (perfected by low flow toilets, Thanks again, Al Gore!
4.) Space Exploration (thank you NASA)
5.) Liz Bishop (thank you cbs6Albany!)
6.) Communism (Thanks Karl Marx)
7.) The Marx Brothers (Thank Groucho, Harpo, Chico, Zeppo, and, of course, Gummo, particularly, thanks for A Day at the Races)
8.) The New York State Racing Authority (Thank you Nelson Rockefeller, Malcolm Wilson, Hugh Carey, Mario Cuomo, and George Pataki)
9.) Sunny Cide

By the way, this is NOT Funny Cide

Although both are known to take horse pills.
10.) Mary Lou's Husband. That would be the dude to her left in the Hooter's shot

Okay, I don't anyone feeling bad about their age or give the agists more grist for the mill. So, here are the top ten things older than Mary Lou Whitney.
1.) The original Mr. CV Whitney, the first husband of our heroine.

2.) Women's Suffrage. (Thank you ladies!)
3.) Moses
4.) Phyllis Diller (by like a week)
5.) Indoor Plumbing
6.) The Pyramids
7.) Democracy
8.) Gambling
9.) Prostitution, the oldest profession.
10.) Dirt.

Have a great day everyone! If you are off to the track, keep a sharp eye out for the women below. And if you see Mrs. Whitney-Hendricksen, shout out "Hi" from the staff at Mr. Friendly.

Damn you, lil' Ricky! Damn you straight to Hell!

2006-07-25T07:23:00.000-04:00

This past Saturday marked the feast of St. Theophilus, and thus, what better time was there to celebrate with some all day poker!

Well, that's what theHost thought. Blame him God. I am just an addict and can't be held responsible for my actions.

The Mrs., Junior, and lil' Squirt were loaded in the car, you know, along side some potato salad, cigars, and some sweet, sweet beer for the trip to outer Latham, site of chez deHost. We arrived around 3 PM and were late comers. Some of the early degenerates were: Cooper, MarkyMark, lilRicky, and theHost's brothers (Mutt AND Jeff). They established a ring game beachhead while waiting for reinforcements. Glad I could oblige.

I handed out one cigar (Mark will smoke anything). I made sure the Mrs. was situated with lil' Squirt. Handed a grape juice to Junior, grabbed a barley juice for myself and proceeded to lose two buy ins within an hour.

One and only one lowlight: That sumbatch lilRicky would not fold to my hammer bet of about 6 or 7 times the big blind. When the shaky flop had a seven, I pushed my meager stack into the pot and Rick thought...
...and thought...and thought...ah, hell you get it. Then the bahstahd called me.

SUMOFABIATCHING CALLING STATION! DOESN'T HE KNOW I HAVE THE MOST POWERFUL HAND IN HOLD 'EM!

He had a seven too. And some paint. There are only two things to do now:
1.) Get some money for the tournaments.
2.) Get a beer.

By tourney time we were blessed with arrival of some new money (RangerDanger and Mrs. Danger, letsChat and Tanya Harding) and the departure of some old (lilRicky and Cooper).

It took me approximately 10.7 nanoseconds to get down to the felt in the first tourney. However, your hero was not done. My leaky stack held its own until Mutt went down. Then Junior hopped in my lap and my luck turned. She asked to see my cards and I said "OK, but tell anyone who asks NOTHING!" My dutiful daughter intoned "NOTHING!" to any and all that might wish to have some inkling on my down cards. Like the great kid she is, she kept that up all night long.

Jeff turned to me at one point and said two things: a.) I need a beer; and b.) I AM ALL IN. He was drinking in mere moments. Those extra drinks carried a mystical mojo for me though. At about the time Jeff got up, the cards turned sweet, oh so sweet for your hero (Thanks Jeff!). Suddenly, there are four people left and I am one of them.

Time for my favorite play: wait for one of the remaining chumps to make a mistake and MONEY. MarkyMark was happy to oblige. I pushed on one of the next two hands and got knocked out by letsChat (another SUMBIATCH).

Ah well, Junior wanted to go swimming anyways. Time for a burger and a swim. Don't worry folks, the water was only 4 feet deep. No chance that cramping would spoil our revelry.

By the second game, the lineup changed again. Enter Cooper, back from some godforsaken kiddie party and lilRicky, I have no idea where he was. LetsChat and Tanya needed to split for a family obligation so I guess I would have to work my hostile animus on lilRicky.

The Mrs. was enjoying herself most of the time despite hating cards. She was chatting up the other non-combatants in the loser lounge (garage) where theHost has couches and a TV. Additionally, there were several hands to hold and make a fuss over lil' Squirt. It was starting to get late, so the Mrs. was planning to go home. I offered to keep Junior and catch a ride back with theHost. She nearly shat herself with that offer and sped off about an hour and a half later. Well, you know, lil Squirt needs to eat, get his diaper changed, sleep, listen to Mommy talk to the other Mommies, etc.

Back to action. Junior forsakes me for the two female combatants (Cooper and Mrs. Danger). Cooper teaches my loving daughter the unforgettable "Girls Rule, Boys Drool!" Junior dubs her Queenie and Mrs. Danger the Princess (She likes royalty, go figure!) and the fight for poker supremacy is on.

I figured having lilRicky to my right would prove entertaining. I was disappointed because I had nothing early and Ricky felt the need to play every one of the first ten hands. Down to the felt for lilRicky. Oh well.

Cooper and Mrs. Danger (now Queenie and Princess) kept pretty good tabs on my princess. Really good. Junior was having a great time and no one was getting to worked up about her four year old shenanigans. Thanks people! And thanks especially to the ladies of our little poker tour. You did great work.

Oh, results of the game:
1.) lilRicky gets too agressive early and bites the dust.
2.) MarkyMark has a stack and loses it.
3.) RangerDanger's brother AK runs into my AJ on a AJx flop. It was nice playing with your RangerDanger brother. That gives me the bounty. Cool $10.
4.) I knock out RangerDanger
5.) I knock out theHost.
6.) I don't know who knocks out Cooper.
7.) I get my seventeenth big slick of the night, suck out for the twentieth time, beat Mrs. RangerDanger and become the St. Theophilus' reigning champion.
8.) We wrap up the festivities with a little "hide and seek" by Junior's request.

On behalf of the entire Friendly family, thank you all.

The Idiot's Guide to Panhandling

2006-07-21T12:48:00.000-04:00

Look, if you're going to stand outside the bank and put the arm on me, catch a clue, go to the mission and read up and apply some snappier techniques. Let's discuss some do's and dont's

DO
1.) Have a good story. Nothing says "I am going to take any money you give me and buy some Boones Farms/Thunderbird/Old Grandad." like just calling me sir and making the pitch. With so much competition out there, "Excuse me sir, can you LEND me a few dollars?", ain't going to cut it.
I have a tie for best story. One dude hit me up at 6 AM on Broadway in Albany. Seems he needed a dollar or two to get something to eat because he spent all his time and money at the impound lot. Second story is similar except this time, our gap tooth cracker hero blames the Indian at the gas station for keeping his car while said hero goes to get some money to pay for the gas he already pumped into his car. Both cashed with me.
2.) Don't be shy, look me in the eye. I know I will be reaching into my wallet when this occurs. Once, while passing through Tricentennial Park (or whatever they call it), I saw two squirrels making sweet, beautiful love. Panhandler was observing too and said:
"Aw, man look at that."
I made my fateful error and looked at him. Our eyes met for the briefest moment but, that was all he needed.
"Hey man, that's something else, huh? You got a dollar?
DAMMIT!
3.) You get more bees with honey. Entertain me people. I am much more likely to give you cash if you do any of the following: a dance, sing, tell a funny story, play a musical instrument, etc. Who the hell said panhandling shouldn't be work?
Get to it!

DONT's
1.) The following phrases, questions or threats will NOT work. EVER!
a.) Hey buddy, got a couple of bucks?
b.) Excuse me sir,...
c.) Got any money today, arsehole?!
For the record, I seldom respond to "buddy" or "sir." I don't fit the bill. Arsehole may engage me though.
2.) Mumbling. Nothing says your heart is not into begging as mumbling. If you really aren't into it, DON'T BEG!
3.) Letting your customer know you recognize him. There was a time when this one grizzled, old gaspipe would sit outside a building on Washington Ave. Everyday he would make a pass at me. That is until he made a mistake by uttering "that cheap bastard never gives me anything."
Now I never will.
Let that be a lesson to those of you who wish to grow a booze budget by begging.

If you don't need it, give it back.

2006-07-21T07:06:00.000-04:00

Hey! Today we have a guest post from an old friend of mine, HeidelHill Pat. We worked together at the Brown Frown over twenty years ago. I think this little ditty harkens back to 1986. Pat lived out Berne-Knox area. Those of you not from the Albany, NY area, that is our closest, but not only, backwoods enclave. Pat was a good guy and good to work with, but we tried hard not to piss him off. He was as strong as an ox and that twitchy eye told everyone that knew him, Pat was a fuggin' powderkeg. Enjoy and I hope to be back later today.

So anyways, you all know I live out in the Heidelbergs. God's country. T'aint but ten miles or more between neighbors.

I'm driving to work one day when I spot Stacks and one of his cooter dogs out for a walk. I figure they're out doing some "out of season" turkey farming since Stacks has got his shotgun with him.

Um, Smith and Wesson, 20 gauge.

Stacks got his name by lifting hay bales. Done ran out of stacks when showing his cousins how many he could lift. He is a big fella. Anyways thats got nothing to do with the story.

I pull over to talk to Stacks since I haven't seen him in awhile.

"Hey Stacks, where you been hiding yourself?"
"Hey ya Pat. I ain't been hiding."
Stacks was a nice guy, just pretty literal.
"You two doing a little hunting?"
"Now you know Pat, I can't go hunting since the state took my license away." Stacks says with a wink. "I'm not going anyways. Got to run an errand."
"Yeah," I say, "can I give you and the dog a lift somewhere?"
"Nah. My errand is for the dog. You know I got too many dogs at home, I was just about to give this dog back."
"Really Stacks, where the hell you going? That dog don't belong to me and I am the only one that lives around here."
Stacks looks me in the eye, spits, then says "I'm giving him back to the Lord."

Now you know, the Humane Society has nothing on Stacks.
Thanks for listening.

Enter the Retardagon

2006-07-18T15:05:00.000-04:00

Sensai Bruce says:
Do not concentrate on the finger or you will miss all that heavenly glory.

Mr. Friendly says:
I have no fuggin idea what he was talking about.
*******************************

Anybody see the movie The Gauntlet?

Yeah, in it Clint runs that scrawny arse Sandra Locke back to some godforsaken Western City and every. cop. in. the. West. wants to kill them.

That's kinda like Washington Park is like these days.

There is no fuggin way you can get through that park without a shakedown.
90 degreee weather "Hey buddy, can you spare a dollar or two?"
Raining "Hey buddy, you got any change?"
9/11 type Terrorist Activity "Hey arsehole! Gimme some money!"

It's getting so you can't walk through there day or night.
*******************************

Anyways, what the hell was I talking about?

Oh yeah, Mrs. and I went to see a baby doc today. Nothing quite as satisfying as a doctor shilling his services. He seemed nice enough, looks like he doesn't drink quite enough to affect his practice and/or skills. He may have the job.

Those in the know know 1.) it should not be a huge, super deal for lil' Squirt and 2.) Mrs. and me are lunatics about everything.

Here endeth the serious portion of the entry today.
*******************************

So I have a Sabretts moment again today. Good thing I didn't succumb to the voices in my head. The people at the Capitol have no clue on how to cook a hot dog.

People, one characteristic of a hot dog is HOTNESS.

I REPEAT: HOTNESS.
Your dog should not look like it just came out of the package. Burn marks are welcome. I know I am only paying $1.75 for it, but you should see the hot dog you get in Las Vegas for $1.75!

It would John Holmes cry.
********************************

Anyone catch Survivorman yet? This guy is certifiable. Lil Squirt and Junior love the squirrel eating parts. I, of course, am waiting to see a big ol' Grizzly come looking for some loving.

And, of course, watch Lee oblige.
********************************

Recent searches that found this site:
soiled underwear

Well, mister (I assume), if you soiled your knickers, I know Hanes will take them back. So you got that going for you Mr. Railroad Tracks!

Just be sure to wash them out before returning, you dirty bahstahd!
********************************

Recently heard on Madison Ave, Albany
I don't know if it is the urban decay, open drug dealing, higher than average psychiatric patient to normal folk ratio, or the persistent panhandling, but there is something about this town I just love.

Yeah, I was talking to myself at the time.
********************************

Okay, I gotta go home and make some Sabretts, or perhaps some Nathans.
Plus, perhaps, perchance drink some sweet, sweet beer.
Now, get some work done dammit!

Condition Yellow!

2006-07-17T07:32:00.000-04:00

It has been 4 months since there was a major fire in Cohoes. That breaks the modern (post 1960) record by about 3 months.

Put the Fire Department on standing alert!

That is all.

Vatican Answer Lady.

2006-07-13T14:30:00.000-04:00

Before I rashly sign Lil Squirt to a multi-year deal with the Catholic Church via Baptism, I had a couple of questions and comments for the Holy See, see. Soz, I give them a call at 1-800-THEPOPE. The following is a transcript of the conversation:

Operator: Hello, Vatican Complaint Dept. How may I direct your call?
Mr. Friendly: Yeah, uh, hello Sister...
O: I am not a nun.
Me: Oh, uh sorry Miss. I just had a few questions for the boys.
O: Oh, my husband might be mad if he heard you call me a Miss.
Me: uh, ok.
O: My husband is Jesus.
Me: That's wonderful. I wish you many happy years.
O: Thank you. What was the nature of your questions?
Me: Right, can someone there tell me what in God's name do you call the pope hat?
O: I do not think the Holy Trinity would appreciate your using his name in vain.
Me: Uh, yeah sorry.
painful silence
Me: I really am sorry, but it has been bugging me for three days. Can you help me with my question?
O: It is called a mitre. and I don't think you are truly sorry.
Me: Yeah, so anyways, am I limited to a number of questions?
O: Well, I am off shift at 4 PM Greenwich Mean Time.
Me: Ok, I will hurry, what's the deal with Harry Potter and the Church? C'mon...it's like Harry Potter, he's never hurt anyone? He's a nerd! I've seen the movies and the only thing he threatens is creativity. How does he threaten Christianity?
O: Well, we don't know what threat Harry Potter poses but we do know that he corrupt the hearts of the young, preventing them from developing a properly ordered sense of good and evil, thus harming their relationship with God while that relationship is still in its infancy.* In fact, he may be the Anti-Christ.
*quote
Me: What about pedophiles?
O: Huh?
Me: You know, altar boy arse grabbers. Priests who can't keep their hands off the kinder. Aside: Just too many references to link
O: Well, the Church is clearly against it.
Me: Ok, so what are you doing about it?
O: All instances will be reported to Vatican.
Me: And?
O: And...
another painful pause
Me: Let's move along. How about the endless bishop's appeals?
O: In order to do the Church's good works, we need the donations from the congregation.
Me: How is the money used?
O: Various purposes. Charity for the poor, ministries, infrastructure...
Me: Legal settlements.
O: legal settlements, charity...
Me: keep the schools running..
O: keep the schools running..
Me: Gotcha!
O: Pardon.
Me: C'mon. You guys close more schools every year. You aren't interested in education.
O: It is a very expensive proposition and we really can't compete with the public schools. They have so many resources.
Me: great, How about sadism?
O: Hmm?
Me: You know, sadistic Nuns?
O: I don't know what you mean.
Me: I saw Sister Mary Hardass throw Joey Scoleosis down a hallway using his back brace as her handle.
O: Well, I am sure she is contrite.
Me: Didn't help Joe's back.
O: She's probably retired now.
Me: Hopefully dead and working off her sins.
O: What a terrible thing to say about someone who sacrificed for the Lord.
Me: I don't want to sound too self-righteous, but when did Jesus advocate beating the shat out of the infirm? What book is that in?
last silence
Me: So I guess, I shouldn't get my kid baptized.
O: Not if you have misgivings. I hope you can make peace with the Church.
Me: Yeah, me too. Thanks for your time.
O: I hope you don't burn in hell for your doubts.
Me: Well, if I do, I will save some seats for your gang.

Trying ..to... regain...focus.

2006-07-13T07:16:00.000-04:00

Ah, Albany! How I looked on you with envious eyes from up the river in Cohoes. Your crumbly buildings crumbling, your mumbly people mumbling. I knew you were the place for me.

Little did I know from my Hudson hideaway that you really are shatburg after all.

Hey, anyone know how far away you need to be to NOT recognize Mayor Jerry Jennings? I was in Capitol Park yesterday and spotted the Orange One (with bodyguard of course!) getting into his mayor mobile. That's gotta be a quarter mile. That's gotta be some sun damaged skin!

Just for the fug of it, who in the world would want to do physical harm to Albany's Mayor? His girlfriend's husband? I don't know.

Speaking of Capitol Park, I got my hot dog yesterday. No PETA-philes to share it with! C'mon people! I remember the day when a little rain would not discourage violent peaceniks yelling about war, strung out, smelly hippies pleading for SSI, sickly vegetarians demanding soybean subsidies, pissed off teachers, disgruntled union members, political hacks, layabout SUNY students...They would be out there! With their placards! Chanting things you could not understand! In foreign languages! Not today though man, protestors are way too complacent!

What happened to everyone's commitment to public grousing?

Kind of makes me want to start my own protest group. How about, "Republicans for Better Bacon!" I don't know, I'll work on it.

So I make it to Washington Park during my walk yesterday. I have one foot (literally) in the park before I get the "Hey, Buddy." routine. Only, he didn't call me buddy and he wasn't that polite. It was more like "Hey! What time is it?"
What I wanted to say: Time to get a new come on line! Go put the arm on someone else!
What I did say: It's noon.

Call me Mr. Pussy.

It's Serendipitous!

2006-07-12T08:22:00.001-04:00

Albany Eye reports Naked Peta sightings due at the Capitol today.

I have had visions of two Sabretts and a Coke in my mind all week.

Now I get a floor show.

Life just keeps getting better and better.

What I did on my Summer Vacation

2006-07-11T10:08:00.000-04:00

Hey.
How you doin'?
I'm okay. My wife had a kid. Yeah, a little boy. Sleeps like he's on Ambien.

Got another beer? Thanks.

Despite a lack of focus, let's see what the day brings blogwise.

On the night before we went into the hospital to get the little squirt birthed and all, I played a little hold 'em online (really trying to close the account because I know I will not have a lot of time to play). Put up my last $100 or so in a .50/$1 cash game on Stars. Double up my pile in less than an hour (Dammit!). Let this be a lesson to you kids, I can't win for losing.

Baby is born and I realize that the nursery room nurses are only nice and sweet with the babies when the parents are around. Rest of the time, it is a real fuggin snake pit in there. I watched them give lil Squirt (our boy) a bath and wished I hadn't. I don't think the nurses feel antipathy toward the babies, it's more like indifference. Like how I felt for packages when I worked at the Brown Frown (that would be UPS).

If you have an hour to kill and you are not squemish, try either of the following Discovery Channel shows. Granted they really appeal to us who like watch things get blown up, shot, dropped, mangled, or people falling in garbage, renderings, or feces.
Mythbusters
Dirty Jobs

For those of you wondering, boys do pee more frequently and with greater velocity. Just ask Mrs. Friendly and she will show you the boy's clothing, his bedsheets, our bedsheets, towels, changing pads, diapers, etc. to prove her point.

For the one or two of you looking for pictures of lil Squirt, you must wait for the email and, thus, my procrastination.

Most state employees need another hand these days. Well, they got one hand pointing in blame at a colleague and another set of fingers firmly stuck in their arse...

Junior and I went to see Click while on vacation. It is really sad to see how far Adam Sandler has fallen since his glorious Happy Gilmore. On the other hand, Junior strongly recommends the Malta Drive In's Italian Ice.

Oh, I had a reader ask me who won the race between the newborn and the client payroll. The winner is ... MY BOY (was there ever any doubt!). He was born on Friday and the check came on Saturday. Lil Squirt is already demonstating an ability to hit 'em in the clutch.

Carry on. Leave a tip.

L'il Squirt

2006-06-29T09:34:00.000-04:00

What the hell am I doing at work?

Billing. By the way, the answer is always billing.

But my head is not in the game coach.

I need to get home and
1.) put a second coat on lil Squirt's room
2.) get the crib together, this is not an emergency.
3.) move some furniture so I can get the basinet in our bedroom
4.) do the car seat thing (veddy, veddy, important)

So my need to do things outweighs my need to bill. Hmm. What to do.
Go home at lunch. But not before I log some thoughts.

My predictions for the weekend.
1.) Mrs. Friendly lashes out at the Health service staff. My best guess is that
everyone (orderly, nursing aide, nurse, doctor, administrator) may feel her wrath.
2.) We will forget something really important. When Junior was born, I forgot to
bring a pacifier. I went back home to get one at 2 in the morning. Nope, the hospital WILL NOT give you one. Another reason the Mrs. lashed out.
3.) Nurses will take Mrs. vitals two or more times in the middle of the night. Despite Mrs. warnings during her pregnancy, this will occur. And this will be the main cause of much trouble over the weekend.
4.) lil Squirt will lose his foreskin. I hope to God it isn't a bloodbath...for his sake and mine.
5.) Junior gets her first taste of crappy hospital food. For free.
6.) lil Squirt will do all the normal things: eat, sleep, eliminate merconium. Can't wait.
7.) Outside chance on this one but lil Squirt may meet his pediatrician a little earlier than your average baby. Nothing to hemorrhage over, just an imperfection.
8.) Mommy and lil Squirt eye each other suspiciously.
9.) Mommy and lil Squirt fall in love.
10.) Daddy cries because he so happy.

Have a good weekend. I am starting mine early.

Return of Ranger Smith

2006-06-28T12:51:00.000-04:00

From the Hinterlands of Long Island returns for a one night only is:

RangerSmith.

No Yogi. No Booboo. No kidding.

I would be forced to take him out back for a poker styling thrashing except I pretty much suck these days.

Whatever. There's always the meatball subs.

Come one, come all for some retardation at chez Host tonight at 6:30.

Watch MarkyMark as he tries to channel some poker FuManChu with his bedazzling soul patch and super twirly mustache.

Watch Cooper fold, fold, fold, until I'm in. Then severely overbet and take the pot.

Watch Mr. Vegas start out strong and bust a few people until some the Magic Suckout.

Watch lilRicky resume rotten luck reversal by moneying yet again.

Listen to letsChat. Then listen some more.

Tanya Harding will arrived with the Ace flop that will kill your pocket Kings.

flyingDane is enroute for all those worried that his dead money would not be around.

theHost is stirring meatballs.

Steve, currently waiting for reckless speeders to cross his path, will speed right on over.

Mark this in your calendar, theMillionDollarMan may make an appearance and bum a beer or two.

Lord help us, BMW has threatened to appear. I wonder if he has a check for me. I mean, I am shilling his website.

And finally, soon to be newly minted 42 year old dad, will make his final appearance for some time tonight.

Just hope I can hang on long enough to break someone...

Then break their chops.

See you there, aloha.

CapitalAreaMrFriendlyHelpWanted.com

2006-06-28T07:25:00.000-04:00

Yo! Cooper is looking for a new slave! If you, or someone you know, is interested, please contact me at mrfriendlyalb@yahoo.com

All information considered reliable (you know, its from Cooper)
JOB DESCRIPTION
We have a position open here at Cooper Logistics for a Billing Technician. It's a full time position with benefits. I'm looking for someone with a good head on their shoulders, hard worker, a personality would be super, superior attention to detail, and would hopefully have a small amount of billing experience. I would forgo the billing experience for someone that is a quick learner and has a good head on their shoulders. If you have "grate attention too detale," don't bother.
So if you know anyone that might be interested in coming to work for a progressive flexible company, working for a great gal (that would be me) and with other fine science-minded folk, receive good company benefits and other perks such as afternoon cookie time please have them send their resume my way.

Job Duties
1.) Arrive on or about 7:30. We have flex time and core hours from 9:30 - 4:00. We are not a shop that dwells on every small detail like some anal retentive first wife that wanted you to make sure that you separated the laundry correctly because failure to do so would result in bleeding and then all your clothes would be pink and you wouldn't be able to go to work in the first place and then what would you do, you lazy bahstahd...
Anyways, as with any new job, make sure you are here before me and leave a respectable five minutes after me.
2.) MAKE ME COFFEE DAMMIT! I take it light and sweet AND NOT TOO SWEET OR YOU WILL BE ON THE OUTSIDE LOOKING IN! Two sugars, that's it, no more no less, no blue stuff, no pink stuff, no yellow stuff. I like light cream dammit, not milk, not half and half (what the hell is half and half?), not non dairy creamer.
3.) Make the damm cookies! See above job description! I forgot to mention that you need to bake well...TUFF SHAT! P.S. I like Chocolate Chip.
4.) Feet rubbing. You know, life in the fast paced world here at Cooper Logistics can be pretty draining. There is nothing quite like a foot rub to make you ready to "get back in the game." I will be counting on my new billing technician to help me stay energized all four quarters so we can realize our dreams and push the ball through the goal (as it were).
5.) Keep your mouth shut and don't say nuthin'. 'Nuff said n'est pas.
6.) Remember core hours are 9:30 until 4:00. That makes your hours 7:30 - 6:30

Salary
We will give you double what Mr. Friendly gets from his clients!

Benefits
Here at Cooper Logistics, we believe in rewarding the meritorious. So after 10 years of dedicated service and progressively improving performance evaluations, you will receive one week in vacation and three sick days. Plus we will contribute 3 percent of your health care premiums and enter you into our 401K program. In said program, you can purchase Cooper Logistics stock at a 2% discount. Sorry, at this time we have no other products available for 401K stakeholders.

On the upside, after 10 years of service, you receive 1 more vacation/sick day for each 5 years of service. So you have that going for you...

So anyways some key words to remember as a valued potential employee here at Cooper: coffee, cookies, core hours.

Remember folks, if you are interested in the position, contact me, Mr. Friendly at mrfriendlyalb at yahoo dot com. I will pass along all viable candidates.

I have to run, but I hope to return with a preview of tonight's poker shenanigans (sp?)

Consumer Alert!!!!

2006-06-26T07:56:00.000-04:00

Ding! Three exclamation points is the defacto alert default punctuation. In this case, we are talking serious, non-nuclear, non-terrorist alert, so four is called for.

Anyways, check this out! My daughter bought one of these things with birthday money last year. She and her little Pre-K buddies tried it out, but I never knew it worked. That is, of course, until yesterday.

Indeed the fine folks at Wham-o have discovered a means of entertaining young and old alike. Who wouldda thunk it! The slip and slide works, even for a fat bahstahd like myself.

Yeah, I know, you are probably thinking, what in the hell is Mr. Friendly doing?! He is going to be a Daddy (again) in four days?! What the fug is he doing? He is going to throw out his 42 year old back, knee, and/or groin!

I am getting in shape genius. Plus I am doing a little product research.

Would you believe, I was hoping to get hurt in a "slip and fall" injury that would end up rewarding me with huge-o money-o from-o Wham-o.

I thought so-o.

On the check vs. lil' squirt front: it is a real fuggin horse race. Remember lil' squirt is due Friday. No check as of Saturday.

Place your bets.

Hello Beano Customer Care Representative, I just wanted to thank you...

2006-06-23T13:18:00.000-04:00

Can I claim credit for this comic masterpiece? I mean its all true, but other people wrote it.

Ah hell, I found it, it's mine!

From the beano testimonial webpage:
"Beano is great! Thanks for helping me eat foods I dared not eat in the past."

"I just want to thank you for Beano. I now can eat broccoli, cauliflower. Thanks for making this."
Yes the raw cabbage and egg salad never tasted so good. It's great to be back fellas! I'M BACK!

"I use Beano daily as I eat many complex carbohydrates and a lot of soy. Beano is a lifesaver!"
I use to go to Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers but ever since I started taking Beano, the carbs aren't in me long enough to cling to my arse and thighs.

"My wife now can eat things she wasn't able before without any repercussions."
No longer does she live in ignominy of getting kicked out of bed nightly for spraying the bedroom.

"After 25 years, I finally found a product that helps with my gas!"
The dog thanks you as well. Being ashamed to take the heat for my little gas leaks, I have blamed Sparky for years!

"This product has dramatically improved my life."
Now, babies smile, women speak, and rooms don't clear when I enter.

"When I found Beano, it was the best day of my life. My gas problem completely disappeared. Thank you."
It was a dark and stormy night when I happened upon the Mexican Connection. The kitchen aroma lured me like the lights and noise of the Vegas casino lures many a degenerate gambler. Indeed, I told the waitress, I will have the Chicken Enchiladas with extra habanero peppers. She asked if I was sure, I nodded enthusiasitically. Little did I know at the time that Beano would need to save the day...AGAIN!

Hot or Not?

2006-06-22T21:19:00.000-04:00

In a never ending quest to respond to reader requests, I have scoured the web for graphic images that will arouse your "ahem" animal spirits.

It wasn't just some random search for skin either. With the HAL 9001, I ran the latest in PASCAL technology against a database of individuals that were deemed "sexy" or sexalicious by a select group of Mr. Friendly readers.

In the spirit of gender fairness, I made two runs (hetero males and females). In double blind testing, the selected pictures were deemed "hot," "pornoriphic," and "someone I would happily break up my marriage for."

Without further ado, I give you the hottest chick in red. Enjoy fellas.

I don't know, maybe she was hotter with a little more "junk in the trunk."

Now, ladies, get ready, relax, maybe get a glass of wine and take the computer to the bathtub. Perhaps some scented candles...

Here he is, your dream man.

As always, Mr. Friendly and the whole Mr. Friendly team awaits your feedback.

Remember, all this entertainment is provided free of charge.

Please remember to tip the service employees.

The Eye of Albany is upon you.

2006-06-22T08:05:00.000-04:00

Check out the Albany Eye for some local links today. Like any good daily reader, I checked out his selections and linked here for you, my loyal and lazy two readers.
Shamus
ISaratoga

Enjoy. And if you get bored, check out my archives or hope for moronica to follow.

Masculinity is in the eye of the beholder.

2006-06-20T14:38:00.000-04:00

In the morning she's a Mrs, in the afternoon she's a Ms., in the evening she's a Mr.
-SCTV (around 1980)

Back in the day, I worked the shelves and register at the local Food Zoo, a fuggin grocery store Ok. On the Cohoes bad streets, it wasn't all that uncommon to see a lesbian or two. They would come in store, load up on 20/20 and some unfiltered PalMals, grab their girlfriend by the arse, and off they go, back to Isle of Lesbos. No problem. Actually, proximity bred familiarity and acceptance of other lifestyles (RIGHT!)

Anyhow, I can spot lesbians at 100 paces or so. I don't know, call it a gift.

Didn't need it at dinner the other night.

Ok, the Mrs. was quite nice to me over the weekend and let me select our entertainment book dinner. I went with Mexican Connection. Hate Mexican food? Go there and get a Margarita. Like Mexican food? That's great cause they will never, ever, punch your entertainment card.

We made reservations because at this blessed time of year, the beautiful Saratoga people like their guacamole. We get there and get seated immediately.

At the next table were three women. Not that they weren't trying to hide the fact.

One gal caught my eye. Let's call her Bill. She had short, spiky hair. Square cut, no taper for her. Eyeglasses were wire rim. Yes, the kind your old man used to wear. She sported the finest in "torn off sleeves" workshirt and some denim shorts cut in such way to accentuate the size of her calves. The ensemble was complete with the finest workboots Timberlands offers. The small jailhouse tattoo on her bicep subtly told onlookers that yes, she was secure in her feminity yet, she had the guns to shoot down any puny man.

Allright, my gal pals are there enjoying their meal. Hell, we all were. I especially enjoyed this wry tidbit:

Lesbidiot Friend: Why does everyone hate Veronica?
Bill (see profile above): Aw, hell, she's too butch!

Happy Freakin' Father's Day!

2006-06-20T07:26:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, theHost, MarkyMark, and myself got into an email war on who had the worst weekend.

Honestly, it was not a contest. I offer in evidence:
1.) A 8 and one half month pregnant wife with a bear of a cold.
2.) A four year old with boundless energy and no activities.
3.) A 3 plus hour dance recital marathon for the four year old.
4.) Time with the in-laws: about 96 hours.
5.) I cooked dinner on Father's day. Burgers grilled while the sun burned the lawn and me at 195 degrees. I was in "rare" form. Get it. Did I mention that in-laws, Mrs. Friendly, and Junior were all enjoying the air conditioning while I suffered? No. Consider it mentioned.
6.) I was beer free. Just. too. many. places. to. drive.

What, you might be asking, did my compatriots come up with:
theHost: Adirondack fine dining AKA a picnic.
MarkyMark: Heinekens while cooling in the pool.

Fuggers. I hate them both.

However, trooper that she is, Mrs. Friendly did manage to make quite a few purchases for her man in honor of the holiest of holies (ahem, Father's Day). For my troubles I received:
1.) Double Wood Scotch
2.) a cheap DVD: Slap Shot 7 or 8 bucks at WalMart, god bless 'em.
3.) A coffee thermos. woohoo, I will be saving $2 a day. Really, I am excited.

Followed by yesterday's
3.) Meatloaf with mashed taters, carrots, and Buttered Haricots Verts (green beans genius)
4.) A lovely cake from my favorite baker Mr. Tom Carvel.
5.) No more dance classes, recitals, costumes, little dancers, big dancers for about 2 and a half months.

Aaaaaaahhhhhhh. Now I can relax.

Whoops. Wait a minute. Lil' squirt will be here next week.

Ah, shat. See you all in 2024. At which point one of two will occur.
1.) I drop dead of a grabber.
2.) Lil' squirt will finish high school.

I hope he hates dance.

Say it ain't so, Joe

2006-06-14T14:03:00.000-04:00

This is fuggin fugtacular!

What? First we lose Golden Krust bakery in Cohoes, now this?

This leads to one and only one conclusion:
These dudes will not sit idly by while others encroach on their turf.

More donut wars later? I don't know but I am putting my Dunkin Donuts Franchise application away for a little while.

I want to write. Really.

2006-06-13T13:02:00.000-04:00

Take a quick gander at exhibit A. Who says the Times Union isn't tough on the establishment?

I do.

And don't forget. If you don't play nice and close a few churches and schools, or don't get down with his religion, or, heaven forbid, stop contributing, he will be forced to make a few hard calls himself.

Residents of Watervliet, Green Island, prepare to attend services in Cohoes. All others within a 50 mile radius of Albany will be attending Sunday Mass in Loudonville. No, wait a minute, they will not let you in there. Everyone get back on the bus! We're going to Albany.

Now on to some serious Moronica...

Mr. Friendly's Top Ten Confession Suggestions
1.) There is no such thing as an impure thought. Unfortunately for some of us, some thoughts are purely lustful, greedy, selfish...
2.) Keep in mind that the screen that keeps the priest from seeing you also keeps you from seeing him.
3.) Desiring to see your fundamentalist neighbors in the fiery furnace is NOT a sin.
4.) Try to put things in perspective for your confessor. For example, cheating on your taxes may be sinful but, put in the proper perspective, like how the government screws all of us over, it can be overlooked.
5.) You can stop counting the number of "Lord's name in vain" now.
6.) Keep up your end of the bargain. Try saying the "Our Father" really fast. If you can't do it in under five seconds, you are not really trying. Keep practicing.
7.) Don't cop to anything that can't be proven.
8.) Don't be dope. Confess at a Church well off the beaten path. I usually go fifteen miles from home.
9.) Gambling is only sinful if you use the grocery, rent, or utility money.
10.) Remember two things: never rat on your friends and always keep your mouth shut.

Viewer Mail

2006-06-12T07:17:00.000-04:00

Hey.

How was your weekend?

Mine sucked the life right out of me.

How about, instead writing some dreadfully insipid new stuff on the habib and poker front, I give you a lame viewer mail segment.

Anything to finish this assignment.

Email #1:
Dear Mr. Friendly,
I am in a 5 handed $4/8 NL game. I sit in the cutoff with KJo and about $300 on the table. UTG went all in for $100, UTG + 1 raised all in, then, some donkey in MP pushed his last $200 into the pot. Am I good here?

Signed,
The Midnight Donkey Pusher.

Dear MDP,
Turn off the computer and get some sleep.
MF.

Email Numero B
Yo Mr. Friendly,
Que? Ou es muy stupido? Paul Vandenburgh o mono?
Sinceramente,
Juan Valdez

Dear Juan,
You're fuggin kidding right? A monkey may not be able to pronounce Tikrit, remuneration, or Jorge Posada BUT, the monkey will not try the old "that's how they taught me in grade school" bluff.
MF.

Email #3
Dear Mrs. Freimly Person,
Greetings! My name is Raveeendra Ankamapooloorgautum. Call me Ravi. Me Computer Engineer with English Composition Experience Me interested in Computer Position. You will hire me due to my vast doubts in Semiconductor Technology. You don't mind purchasing $2,000 H1B sponsorship. My sister's husband's arranged marriage wife's second cousin is intellectual property attorney. She says you must pay me or Else?

Is it ok for me to get paid for 1000 hours before contract signing? I await your answer anxiously!

Hope your year prosperous and family multudinous.
Greetings!
Ravi

Dear Raveeendra,
STFU!
And go buy a vowel for cripessakes!
MF.

Email D
Hey Man!
How's the wife? How's the new addition to the family? Have you been paid yet?
A friend.

Hey Friend,
Thanks for asking, don't get me started.
Seriously, Mrs. Friendly is still very much pregnant, thus the addition has not gotten his green card (in a manner of speaking) yet.
Sadly, I have not been paid yet. Client owes me for 516 hours of labor. That is roughly 17% of total contract work complete.
The only funny thing is the commercials the local union runs on high priced consultants. Funny shat.
MF.

Email Numero Cinque!
Dear Mr. Friendly,
Drink, drank, drunk?
Sincerely,
An English Teacher in Troy, NY

Dear Teach,
Drink - infinitive, do not split. As in "Would you like to drink some beer?"
Drank - Past tense. Example: My mom drank too much Night Train.
Drunk - Past Participle (weak, passive language): If I had drunk the Drano, I would not have to take the Math III regents.

Yeah, lay that one on the 17 year old shatheads.

MF.

If you, or someone you know, needs an answer to a burning question, please don't mail it to mrfriendlyalb@yahoo.com. I may answer or I might be too busy. Who knows?

Thanks for stopping by.

All apologies to Ray Charles...

2006-06-08T09:01:00.000-04:00

My bills are all due and Junior needs shoes and I'm busted
Bill rate is down to a 5 dollars an hour, but I'm busted
My program won't work and the project's delayed
A crowd of habibs that gets bigger each day
The state's gonna cancel my corp any day cause I'm busted.

I went to my in-laws to ask for a loan cause I was busted
I hate to beg like a dog without his bone, but I'm busted
My wife's mom said there ain't a thing I can do,
Microsoft and Intel stock are down the tubes,
And I was just thinking about calling on you 'cause I'm busted.

Well, I am no thief, but a man can go wrong when he's busted
The contracts we billed last summer are gone and I'm busted
The jobs are in Mumbai and business won't grow,
Me and my family got to pack up and go,
But I'll make a living, just how I don't know cause I'm busted.

I'm broke, no bread, I mean like nothing,

I'm back

2006-06-07T07:19:00.000-04:00

Have you missed me?

Thought so.

Just have not had anything funny to write about.

But today, I would like to take on the software engineering employment front (This, from someone who can't shakedown his client after 3 months of labor).

What's your take on engineering labor front? Think the little gen-x,y,betweeners don't cotton to math and science? Take a look at VDARE's column from the fifth.

Now, what do you think?

How about my little story from a couple weeks back about one of my scumbag green card holders bidding against me and herself? Nice, very nice.

Still not convinced. Here's a little observation from the past few weeks. As many of you know, I work for a client that is HEAVY into H1B hiring. When I say heavy, I mean I sit here waiting for the client announcement that operations are moving to Mumbai. Anyways...

I think something is stirring in the software market. Is the last throws before a recession or the start of a new cycle? I. don't. know.

But, the habibs are moving their desks. That's right! From the current locations, they will move their computer, cell phone, blackberry, and their arranged marriage pinups to the stairwell. Why?

It is so much easier to speak privately to prospective new clients in the stairwell.

In the past week, I saw about 10 instances where people of the pidgin english persuasion got the economic lowdown via cellphone in the stairwell.

Fantastic.

A few tips to those considering employment elsewhere:
1. Take your microwave, your instant curry, your goat meat, and your elephant statue with you.
2. Don't call me again. Ever.
3. Don't let the door hit you in the arse.

I know, I know, wishful thinking.

Hope all is well with you. Don't forget the tip cup. Remember my client has not paid me since February.

Heck, I am not doing this for free. At least I didn't plan on it.

Ok, I don't need the tips. But for the love of God (Krishna, Buddha, Allah, whatever), write your congressman/senator about limiting the number of H1B visas. If successful, I'll take you out to lunch.

The good, the stupid, and the unethical

2006-05-25T08:04:00.000-04:00

Dear <>,
Due to increased workplace activity, Mr. Friendly has not been able to record his funny anecdotes and thoughts in this here blog. Although he can't guarantee it, his plans include greater diligence in retarded recordings. Please forgive his absence.

Sincerely,
Mr. Friendly's Mom

On the Habib subcontractor front...

One of my subcontractors will be up for renewal soon. I checked with his boss and everything is going swimmingly. I asked about a bump in her rate and he agreed that it would be ok. Great! All Systems Go. Prepare to launch. Whatever...
This is good news, right?
Wrong.
I return to my fugging subcontractor. I tell him the good news. I get "the look." The look is a facial contortion that combines surprise, disdain, and trepidation. He'll have to think about the raise and renewal. You see he has a new house, a baby on the way, and his wife has a job...
What?
What the fug is wrong with these people? IN WHAT UNIVERSE IS A RAISE BAD NEWS? Someone explain to me how a 25% bump is bad?
On second thought don't. I know. He wants more.

Onto the stupid...

The second jagass is a prospect. He answers one of my solicitations:

Hello Mr. Friendly,
How are you? I would like to apply for this
position.Seems to be we can bid up to $165 dollars per
hour.Can I get around $150 dollars then I will send
my updated resume.
Please let me know.
A Subcontinent Moron

For the moment, put aside your thoughts on any company giving a small outfit like mine $165 for an unproven quantity. Rather let's ponder on what said moron thinks my time is worth. Putting a bid together is not insignificant. After you get the resume from your prospect, my firm puts together a package that would choke your typical class action lawyer. Then we gussy up said package, mail it (at my expense), and follow through with proposing firm's contract staff. This is not nonchalant stuff.
Just to add a little spice to the dish, THIS PARTICULAR HABIB backed out of a deal one time for $1 an hour. He bid, interviewed, and won the position. He then tried to squeeze 1 dollar out of the firm contracting his services. Do I need to tell you how this played out? Shorthand: HE IS STILL WORKING 750 miles away!
My response to his query set some conditions to his proposal: one, he must form some sort of company where he was sole proprietor or corporate officer; two, he must bond himself (if awarded the position and did not take it, bond goes to my firm otherwise, bond reverts to him). The response:

Mr. Friendly,
Thanks for the reply.My green card in still going and
I work's for my brother's compnay.If my brother gives
a assurence that will be fine for you? please tell me
your opinion.This time I am going to give 100%
assurence, if I get a bit I will join.
Thanks,
Someone who clearly does not really want to work with me.

I only have one question:
How do you get close to a green card without any communication skills?

Oh well, on to the unethical.

Got a call from a prospective client the other day. Seems one of my "would be" subcontractors made two bids for the same proposal. One with my firm, one with some other outfit. She interviewed with the prospective client through the other firm. A little bent about doing the bid paperwork for this fugging arsehole, I sent the following email to her and her jagass husband (who happens to work at my site).

Arsehole,
It has come to our attention that, at least once, you submitted yourself for a bid proposal with Mr. Friendly, Inc. and another company. Forgetting, for the moment, the intelligence of competing with yourself for any position, our firm believes that a continuing relationship with you is not in our best interests. Since the firm, at your request, recently submitted you for Proposal *****, we will pursue a withdrawal of that bid with the proposing firm. Additionally, we will forward no more bids to you.
Our firm is sorry that our relationship has concluded this way. We would have liked to have helped you find a contract position. However, we don't think a continued relationship with you is, or would be, mutually beneficial.
Good luck in your future job search.

Mr. Friendly, President
Mr. Friendly, Inc.

Her husband passed me in office the other day. I thought he was going to jump under a desk and hide. Well, tough shat. He should have told his scumbag wife not to piss me off.

When the Entertainment Book just will not cut it

2006-05-19T14:31:00.000-04:00

The Spring of Austerity Induced by my Deadbeat Client is almost over!

Mrs. Friendly and I threw away the Entertainment Book for the evening and plan to dine at Lombardos.

Do yourself a favor and go to Lombardos.

What the fug are you still doing here, I said go to Lombardos.

Domestic Tranquility

2006-05-19T13:38:00.000-04:00

It's been raining in the Greater Capital Region, for what, 35 days now. So I took a break from finishing the ark so I could mow the lawn. You know, my anal retentive neighbors get bent at me when the grass is over six inches.

Ok I put down my cubit ruler and gas up the Sears Grassguzzler. Whoop, don't forget the weed whacker, I need to wake up the neighbor babies with that puppy.

Note to lawn mowing neophytes, start with the weed whacking. That way, mulcher or bagger can clean up that mess.

You know, payment for any and all life tips may be made to my PokerStars account.

Ok. So I get the trim done. I check out my pumpkins, tomatoes (tomahtoes), and Junior's sunflowers. Everything is how it should be.

Except ...

That fuggin dog of mine is in my new flower bed!

Well, I do have the weed whacker...

No, I didn't. But I did give the mutt a piece of my mind. Yes, quite loudly.

Did I mention my neighbors love me? Yeah, they think I am Fred Sanford.

Where was I? All right, back to mowing. Junior wants to come out. Well ok, but stay where Daddy can see you.

Rightyo, Daddyo!

Today's Four Year Old's on parade will begin in three, two, one...
Junior, if you want to be out here, then stay out here!
Junior! I am in the back yard!
Stay with me Junior, people are animals.
Junior, help me pick up your toys.
Here, bring this bag of grass out to the curb.
Junior, will you stop going in one door and out another!

Where'd she go?
"Hi Daddy."
"Hey honey, what do you have there?"
"My shopping cart. I am pretending it is my lawn mower."
Aaaawww. Ain't she cute.

"Ok Junior, just try to stay out of my way. I have to get done before the typhoon hits."
"Daddy, what's a typhoon?"
"Sorry honey, it's a really big storm."
"With thunder?"
"Sometimes."
"OK. I am going in now."
"All right. I'll see you later."

Mommy helped get the toy shopping cart back in the house. I move on to dog poop minefield, er, backyard.

The next time the Mrs. suggests we plant 30 arborvitae, she's going to have to dig a hole or two. Why the hell did I do this? Must. mow. around. every. one. son. uv. a. biatch!

By the time I am done, the tally is: third of an acre mowed, average height of grass: 6 inches, 2 barrels of grass clippings, weight of barrels: 150 pounds, time to complete: 90 minutes, amount of rain that fell 5 minutes after I am done: 5 inches.

Sonofaseacook. I'll have to do this again tomorrow.
************************
For you romantics I recorded the following:
Mrs. F.: Honey!
Me: Yes, dear.
Mrs. F.: I really like your coffee.
Me: Thank you.
Mrs. F.: Really.
Me: I am happy to make you happy dear.
(pause)
Mrs. F: Honey!
Me: Yes dear!
Mrs. F.: Can you make me some coffee?
Me: Sure.
Mrs. F.: With lots of cream?
Me: Ok.
Mrs. F.: And some sugar.
Me: Uh-huh.
Mrs. F.: Not too much.
Me: Yes. How much coffee would you like?
Mrs. F.: Two 6 ounce cups.
Me: Ok.
(pause)
Mrs. F.: Honey!
Me: Yes!
Mrs. F.: Measure out the water, please.
Me: I always do.
Mrs. F.: Can you heat up a cup for me too? You know I like the cup to be hot.
Me (mutterring): want me to drink it for you too?
(pause)
Mrs. F.: Did you say something?
(pause, count to ten)
Me: No, dear.

That is what domestic bliss is all about people.

Have a good weekend.

Dunkin Donuts Notes

2006-05-18T09:13:00.000-04:00

To Management: You know, maximum efficiency is not achieved by adding the tenth person behind the counter.
***************
To those who want the Strawberry Decaf Coolata with non-fat whipped cream and the Everything Bagel without garlic half butter, half cream cheese: maybe you should spare us and make your breakfast at home.
***************
To the dude standing right. at. my. hip. pocket: Maybe you should go ahead and ask me out. Just get it over with, PLEASE!
***************
To the lady who has my coffee ready when I finally get to the counter: thanks.

That is all.

Time for a very special episode of...

2006-05-17T07:07:00.000-04:00

Mr. Friendly's Neighborhood

But first some messages from our sponsors.

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Now back to our show...

Mr. Friendly is returning from the men's room. He stops to smell some food that is cooking in the office microwave. He turns to his Indian co-worker.
Mr. Friendly: Something smells good.
Clueless Indian #1: Yes.
(pause)
Mr. Friendly: What is that?
Clueless Indian #1: Meat.
Mr. Friendly: What kind?
Clueless Indian #1: Goat.
Mr. Friendly: Really, where do you get that?
Clueless Indian #1: Oh, you know, Indian Bazaar, House of Curry, Ravi's Rendering Repast, you know Indian Food Shops.
Clueless Indian #2: I butcher goat myself. You want liver?

Join us next week on Mr. Friendly's Neighborhood when Mr. Friendly decides to become a vegetarian.

14 minutes and counting

2006-05-16T15:19:00.000-04:00

Can I come up with something witty to say.

Nah!

So let me wow you with some pictures.

My motto: Don't let a day go by without thinking of "Full Metal Jacker."
And laughing.

This is a picture of the typical IT meeting here at the client's. I am the dude on the left.

Here is my family. Notice the resemblance. The guy on the right is my uncle Steve.

Hey I gave Giarda a shot, how about some love for local girl Rachel Ray?
Crickets.

By the by, the client wants me to join the dark side, I mean become an employee.

Go fuggin figure.

I don't think they can afford me.

Ah, we will see, we will see.

Ah yes, time to go home. Hopefully something truly stupid will come my way.

The First Annual Mr. Friendly Reader Contest

2006-05-10T07:17:00.000-04:00

I will give a buck to the first contestant that can tell me which will arrive first?
a.) My first check for this here state contract
b.) My son (HINT: he is due July 6)

Entries may be sent to mrfriendlyalb at yahoo dot com.

Yeah, yeah, yeah...

2006-05-10T07:07:00.000-04:00

But can she cook a meatloaf?

WWJD?

2006-05-08T10:20:00.000-04:00

Pure Genius. This, wait a minute, muttonhead would like to teach you something. The subject is not:
1.) How to become a huge teen idol.
2.) How to get your Playboy centerfold co-worker fired.
3.) How to get Alan Thicke pissed off.
4.) How to make really impressive rapture movies

As my habib friends would say: Nononononononononoononononoonono...No!

He wants to save your soul...for a $100.

Go to the site and find out who will not be saved. How to get saved. Tips on saving for salvation. Become rapture ready in 10 easy steps. Get the abridged freaky fundamentalist bible on CD. Old Testament as read by Kirk. New Testament by Stephen Baldwin.

I have a little situational ethics question for any Fundamentalist Christian Proselytizers. Suppose for a moment that your lapsed Catholic neighbor was out of work because his IT contracting gig lapsed. He has been out of work for a couple of months and has a wife and baby. You are a Project Manager at a Large Blue Computer Consulting outfit. Would you:
1.) Pray for him at your local Freaky Fundamentalist Christian Church.
2.) Talk about him with your pastor.
3.) Ask your wife why is your neighbor in that line of business.
4.) Offer to help find your neighbor some work.

Am I bitter that my neighbor chose 3. Nononononononononoononononoonono...No!

That my friends, is not what Jesus would do. No, that is what your clueless, self-righteous, "I have mine so fug you" types would do.

Let's end with a really cool, appropos quote from a great sage, Max Von Sydow (from Hannah and Her Sisters) on what Jesus would do:
You see the whole culture. Nazis, deodorant salesmen, wrestlers, beauty contests, a talk show. Can you imagine the level of a mind that watches wrestling? But the worst are the fundamentalist preachers. Third grade con men telling the poor suckers that watch them that they speak with Jesus, and to please send in money. Money, money, money! If Jesus came back and saw what's going on in his name, he'd never stop throwing up.

Come back for more.

Weekly Update Roundup in the News at a Glance

2006-05-05T08:09:00.000-04:00

If you know your flopped straight is going to fall by the river, do you call your opponent's all in anyways?

I did.

I lost.

With a seven card straight.

Dam you MarkyMark and your detestable, black magic all in! I will see you burn in Hell!

So anyways, I play what, about 6 hands. Two, no one calls my massive bets. Three, I don't hit the flop and I am out. Number 6, I am in the big blind with 34o. Flop is 567. I begin to tremble. Then Monsieur Mark throws in $15. I have about $12 in front of me. I should be dying to put this in but in the back of my head I hear:
"Fool! Your pitiful sucker end straight will fall to the better straight when Mark hits his 4 outer!"

I did not listen to the voice. Bet and flip. MarkyMark has a 9. Turn is a 2. River is a 8. My 2-8 straight falls to his straight to the 9.

Poker sucks, la-la-la. Poker sucks, tra-la-la.

That's it kids, that was my night.
*********************************

Any other exciting news?

Oh yeah, this one is for unionized state workers that think consultants make the big money.

Next time you are crying over your Daily Racing Form and Budweiser (the official lunch of the CSEA), bemoaning how God done you wrong by not making you a "high priced" IT consultant, consider:
1.) I do not have a hold on my position. Every year or so, I could be out on my arse. I must rebid.
2.) Suppose I win the contract, even with a renewal, I still need to wait for State Comptroller approval in order to get paid. What does that mean? It means until approved by all the statie bureaucrats, and there are many, I DO NOT GET PAID. Which, furthermore, means I have been working at my current site on the current contract since this winter WITHOUT GETTING PAID! How long do you think you could do that?
3.) No days off.
4.) No pension contributions.
5.) No health insurance.
6.) No falling asleep at my desk.

Just something to keep in mind the next time you ask me to sign your petition to do SOMETHING about state contractors.
************************************
Last 5 vehicles that almost ended my life
1.) CDTA (Capital District Transportation) Bus #31 at Clinton and Broadway, Albany.
2.) CDTA (Capital District Transportation) Bus #8 at State and Broadway, Albany.
3.) CDTA (Capital District Transportation) Bus #24 at Encon Building, Albany.
4.) Some Escalade in front of the Dunkin. Spinner rims, blaring hip hop, driver's got the bling. Yeah, there's no drug problem around here.
5.) Former Albany Police Chief John Nielsen almost ran me over in the cross walk in front of the Steuben Club in Albany. Fugger never even looked. Nice Ford Explorer. Wish I had a company car.

This post is not funny enough. Not at all.

It's all right. Something retarded is just around the corner.

I am Chillin and Shillin

2006-05-02T08:50:00.000-04:00

The following post is brought to you by:
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The Bubonic plague as administered by your in-laws?

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Ask for it by name. That’s Mel’s Melatonin.
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Open letter to Alan Hevesi

2006-05-02T07:18:00.000-04:00

Mr. Alan Hevesi
New York State Comptroller
Comptroller's Office
110 State Street
Albany, NY 12236

Dear Mr. Comptroller,
As a consultant to your fine state, I regret to inform you that your state is in arrears on its payment to the Mr. Friendly Corporation of Cohoes, NY. In the past two months, our firm has invoiced several hundred hours for the services of one consultant, Mr. Friendly.
Let this letter serve as a reminder of your contractual obligations and a plea to pay posthaste. Mr. Friendly promises to continue his part in economic growth via consumptive stimulation. He currently has his eye on some new underwear.

Sincerely,

Mr. Friendly, Pres.
Mr. Friendly Inc.

What the heck are you looking at me for, I've needed new undies ever since I lost all the weight.

Less than 12 hours later...

2006-05-02T07:15:00.000-04:00

I get my first hit at this hear blog from some Canadian looking for Lindsay Lohan nude pictures.

Hello, Kingston, Ontario! Sorry to disappoint.

He stayed around for 0 seconds.

Dammit.

Have I Introduced You to the New Project Manager?

2006-05-01T09:02:00.000-04:00

The staties here are really into management by proxy. Since they are too passive to ask the consultants for work, they hire Gny Sgt. Hartman. First words out of his mouth:

Are you quitting on me? Well, are you? Then quit, you slimy fucking walrus-looking piece of shit. Get the fuck off of my obstacle. Get the fuck down off of my obstacle. Now. Move it. I'm going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of the world. I will motivate you, Mr. Friendly, if it short-dicks every cannibal on the Congo.

What do you really want to know?

2006-05-01T07:37:00.000-04:00

This post brought to you by some fugging virus the in laws gave me.

The. streak. is. over.

Unbelievable. Twelve years of eating anything I want shot to shat.

When it ended, it ended with a bang, a splash, and several flushes.

Enough. I am starting to feel woozy again.

10 Things You Might Want to Know
1.) THIS IS NOT A POKER BLOG. Well, wait a minute, IT IS A POKER BLOG in that I announce results, upcoming games, bad beats, and other stupid shat that goes on at the HPT. However, I don't spend enough time on the game to get much better than I am right now. If you are into hand analysis, tournament strategy, and how to hone your game like a champion, you are about to be disappointed.

2.) This is a blog about things I, and hopefully you, find funny. Topics do include: Witty donkey chatter, psychological meltdowns at the HPT, crazy panhandler stories, etc. Again, I warn you not to read any further if you are not in to this.

3.) I admit that I want traffic. Save linking to phony Lindsay Lohan nude pictures, I would do anything to get people to read my stuff.

4.) I was out of line with my response to BG's comments. Removed. However, I stand by original analysis. The End.

5.) If you are looking for the latest edition of Poker Blogging Peyton Place, I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed again. My desire to raise traffic does have bounds (see 3 above). I would much rather be on the sidelines, pointing fingers, mocking others.

6.) I will shill though. Not some pedestrian PokerStars/Party/Ultimate/Paradise ad mind you, but a link to something near and dear to my heart, to wit, fattening BMW's wallet. Visit BMW's site. There is another link on the right.

7.) I don't feel like puking yet.

8.) Number eight is about aspiring poker players/bloggers. Never, not once, has the outcome of a hand had any effect on my family life.

All right, once. Mrs. Friendly told me to shut the fuggin computer down and get upstairs or she was going to kick me in the arse.

That's only time though, I swear.

9.) Blogging, to me, is really not about exhibition of my id, super ego (cmon you psychology majors help me out). It is, and always will be, about funny stories, scenes, and comments.

10.) Ultimately, I am bent because I had to waste mondo blog space for these explanations.

Wait. I am over it.

As Mrs. Friendly says, and you should too,
"Forward to the Moronicon!"